


Ephemeral

by Tita



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Journalism, M/M, Poems, anonnymous, non face to face, sorta Punk Louis, university!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:52:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tita/pseuds/Tita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is given a column in the university newspaper and he finds inspiration in Louis, a rocker that works the morning cafe shift and whose life's pinnacle is being on stage.<br/>Neither of them think much when the first poem is exchanged, but then again, neither of them thought they needed each other.<br/>(No longer updated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been harbouring this idea for quite some time, but it would be nothing without the help of Ainsle who was there to sort the idea out and help me with my terrible poetry ,and my betas who i love a lot and owe it all to. And i am being silly but it has become my baby so thanks to everyone who helped and for those who read!  
> Also, this may not be a fic for everyone as it doesn't have major H/L until later. It is much more a story of personal development at the beginning, but if you bear with me during that, you'll be very rewarded ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the people in this story nor do i claim to know anything about their lives. This is fiction and intended only for leisurely reads :)

**Saturday 16th**

As the door clicks behind him, Harry breathes out deeply, trying to release the tension that had accumulated during the meeting. His shoulders pop, and as he sits down on the bench, so does the rest of him.

His whole body aches, calling out for sleep he has long given up on, and with a groan he slides onto the sturdy wood. Mindlessly, he brings a hand to his face and starts picking on the irritated skin around his nails, making the red grow and soft pain shoot up.

He knows he’s got a few minutes until Mr. Hayman comes, but he can still feel the dread slowly building in his stomach.

It’s not like the meeting’s left much to the imagination: the old columnist has graduated and they need a replacement, and they want it to be someone with inside experience on how the paper works. The options are fairly limited, Aiden, Harry and Matt being the only journalism students that actually work on the Daily Leeds newspaper (though none of them find their mundane jobs sorting through old articles and picking up the rare phone call any interesting).

Besides, Harry knows he’s going to be the chosen. Not because he’s good so much as because the boss has an affinity for him. Matt’s too lazy and Aiden’s too clueless, and he’s really the only option at this point.

.The clock on the wall ticks once, twice and then again, the sound vibrating through the room. A fly taps against the glass, not realizing it can’t break through, and the buzz, buzz, tap is cyclical. It is comforting, though, how constant it all is, and if Harry hadn’t downed that cup of coffee ten minutes ago, he would surely be gently sinking into the bench.

Blinking rapidly to dispel sleep, Harry sees the door opening and sits up as quickly as his gangly limbs allow. Mr. Hayman appears on the other side, a smile ever-present on his face, and he comes to sit next to Harry, occupying most of the bench as the boy scrambles to the corner.

He turns to face Harry, clears his throat and widens his smile, “So you already know you are one of the best kids in the office, Harry,” he begins, and Harry braces himself for a long speech neither him nor his body are up for. “And I genuinely think that with your grades in the practical lessons and the dedication you show here, you could go a long way.”

Mr.Hayman pauses for a second and stares at Harry thoughtfully. Harry thinks he can see long lost memories in his boss, long lost ones of university and friends and his first journalism work, so he stays still and waits for Mr. Hayman to relieve them. It takes him only several seconds to do so, “I want to offer you the position of columnist Harry.” he continues, with an excitement Harry can’t match tainting his voice. “It requires you to write short pieces on a subject you want to share to give in on Monday, for the column goes in the Tuesday paper, and you have free reign basically.”

Harry nods, partly because he understands and partly because wants to leave the room.

“I believe you could do great things with it, kid, and the pay is moderate,” Mr.Hayman says, which Harry knows translates to ‘it’s barely enough to live on’ but he doesn’t object. No one expects him to. “So, will you take it? I think this is a great opportunity for you.”

Harry pretends to consider it; he has to, because his brain faintly whispers do it, and so does his wallet, but his heart isn’t in it. It is a lost battle, and he feels it beat loudly once more before surrendering.

“Yes I will.” He announce, slowly turning  to the eager faced Mr.Hayman, taking in how his face lights up more than his own. “Thank you for considering me.” He adds for good measure, waiting patiently for his boss to smile and let him go. The air feels sluggish around him, and his shirt clings to his faintly beating torso.

“You deserve it kid, now go have fun.” Mr.Hayman says, smiling again as he gets up with difficulty and heads down the hall into his office. Then he stops,“I almost forgot! We need you to present the piece for this Monday night.”

“Alright.” Harry responds, and gets up himself, collecting his bag from the floor and walking the other way.

Outside, the air is crisp and breezy, and as Harry walks he pulls the collar of his jumper higher, trying to protect himself from the cold onslaught.

On the green grown sides of the concrete trail, dozens of students are lounged around, casually chatting and seemingly ignorant of the cold. He thinks it’s got something to do with the fact that it’s Friday but he scurries to the warmth to keep his nose intact nonetheless.

Thankfully the walk is short, and soon Harry is shoving the key into the lock and entering the dorm building. He lets the heat welcome him with a sharp wave, and though the stuffiness makes him want to run back out, he stays in because the cold is a serious turn off, and so are useless, frozen fingers.

He walks up the stairs slowly and goes straight for his blissfully empty room. After depositing his bag, he slumps face down into the duvet and closes his eyes.

Tiredness washes over him, and he feels his brain tittering in the edge of sleep, as if asking for permission from him to fully shut off. There’s nothing Harry wants more, and in a few minutes, his soft snores echo around the room.

 

***

 

When he wakes up, the sun is no longer sneaking in through in between the blinds, and he can hear his phone ringing faintly. His brain feels like mud and the thought that he should get up and check who's calling waddles through until he finally relents.

Lazily, he sits up and rubs some of the sleep from his eyes, green trying to locate the buzzing sound that grows stronger each passing second. The shadows hide his room from him, and the grey tones make the room feel sorrow. When he finally remembers it’s in his bag, Harry stretches, gets up and fishes it out, pressing the answer button as quick as his sleep ridden body allows.

“’ello” He mumbles into the phone, softly as to not startle the other. Or himself, he doesn’t really know.

“Harry, get your ass in here!” Nick yells into the speakers. He seems to be in a busy place, for in the background Harry can hear people laughing and the faint beat of what is surely a top forty song. “Everyone is at mine and we have beer, oh and Aiden’s told us you prick! Come here to celebrate.”

Just after that, Nick hangs up, and though Harry knows the boy is drunk and probably won’t even know if he goes or not, he steps toward his closet and grabs a new shirt, gauging mentally how thick of a coat he needs.

 

He can get fresh air in the walk and the way to Nick’s flat has a nice forest by the side, so he’s not really against the idea of going out for a while. Also, he hasn’t gotten drunk in forever, so that’s a plus.

After changing out of his shirt and grabbing a coat, he makes his descent down the stairs and out of the door, wincing when the cold air brushes against his still somewhat sleepy face. Harry tugs the scarf higher on his neck, bringing it up over his nose that still remembers the previous trip with a tinge of pink.

As he expected, the path is clear and inviting, and while he walks through it, his long legs striding easily, he dares look up into the blue, blue sky. Faint glimmers adorn it, shining for god knows who. Maybe another wandering soul like himself, a hoard of drunks, or even for a loving couple. Even if it is, they leave some splendor for him, and he soaks it all in, taking the stars like energy and letting it light up his face in ways only some know how; but nature seems to know everyone a bit too intimately.

His smile lasts as long as his small trip does, and as the elevator halts in Nick’s floor, it’s quickly replaced by a calculating purse of lips.

There seems to be as many people as he’d feared, but now that he’s here, they don’t seem so terrifying. They are the same old drunks who wave at him with knowing, loopy smiles, and he weaves through them to reach the kitchen where he is sure he’ll find alcohol, and therefore Nick.

It is even more packed than the living room, and as Harry peers over everybody’s head, he cannot make out Nick’s terribly pink hair, so he gives up and heads back to the previous room, where he can at least wait on a couch.

As he slowly makes his way between the masses of people, his eyes land on the couch where, luckily, there is a free spot. Sitting down, a random girl passes him a beer and he chugs it, ignoring the fact that the origin may be dubious.

The music pounds in a steady rhythm, the sounds dropping and people swinging their hips. His lungs inhale the steady mixture of stuffiness, sweat and perfume, and though he despises it, he likes it as well, because it’s different but familiar nonetheless. Nick is known for throwing these parties, and Harry is almost immune to the scene after two years of it: the same old people gathering around, the ever-changing pop beats thrumming, and the usual outcome of terrible hangovers and regrets.

Harry is chugging down the last remains of his beer when the infamous Nick decides to appear with a big, silly smile directed at him. He stumbles and pushes his way into the couch, where he plops himself unceremoniously next to Harry, turning to face him.

“Harry! Where have ‘ya been mate? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Nick exclaims, his voice wavering heavily with what is sure to be copious amounts of alcohol. His excitement is palpable in the loaded air. “Aiden told me you know? Congratulations, man! You can now be granny Styles giving relationship advice.”

“Fuck off,” Harry chuckles, shoving the boy lightly on the shoulder and laughing once more when he looks disconcerted.

“What? You don’t wanna tell a bird her boyfriend is better off or a tell boy how to woo a skank? Where’s the journalist in you?” Nick adds, smirking.

 _Where is he indeed_ Harry wonders, but Nick is getting up messily and kissing him sloppily on the cheek so he lets himself laugh.

“Cheers, H” Nick finalizes in what Harry knows is his fond tone, below all the alcohol, as he skirts away. Harry watches him stumble and disappear into the crowd.

The people dance like there’s no tomorrow, and Harry goes to the kitchen to get another drink. There he sees Perrie, a girl with inane pink hair –like Nick, his lazy mind supplies- and she chats on and on about some fit guy in her class, but then pecks him goodbye and wanders off to the karaoke machine. He doesn’t talk with anyone much after that.

The rest of the night goes on in a blur, the walls tilting and people wilting into thin strands as he slurps down drink after drink. Colours dissipate into strange shapes that dance before his eyes, and the music becomes a sweet lullaby that has his eyelids swooping after a while. He faintly registers someone talking amidst the darkness, but he’s soon pulls him under again.

 

***

 

Morning regretfully comes, and it meets a sleepy Harry right in the face. His back feels like it was run over, and as his pounding head barely processes the fact that someone left the curtains open and light shines right in his face, it cricks uncomfortably. He simply rolls his head and goes back to sleep.

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to someone poking his cheek. Harry pries an eye open and finds that it’s Ed, who smiles at him lazily before lifting his sleepy limbs and plopping down in the couch next to him. They sit in silence until Harry’s head feels doesn’t feel as prone to an explosion and he can get up, painfully slow, until he is sitting up.

“So, you’re alive.” Ed remarks and Harry grunts in response. His head is throbbing, his back is destroyed, and mouth tastes terribly, so he can’t say he’s in a very lively mood. However, he does sigh once more and lean on Ed, who in turn laughs and puts an arm around his shoulders, “You were cold out yesterday mate, recon you drank every cup in the house,” The ginger chuckles, and Harry’s body shakes with him. “But you were celebrating right? Nick told me you got made into a granny or something? I swear I never get what that loony goes on ‘bout.”

Harry hates Nick.

He clears his throat and winces at the taste once more before answering. “They gave me a column in the paper,” He offers, voice rough and piercing in the morning peace. “Last page.”

Ed pats him in the back and smiles, “That’s super.” He cheers in as enthusiastic a way as he can, his state similar to Harry’s.

They sit in silence for about an hour until Nick comes out of his room, nude excluding his underwear, and with a shy boy trailing behind him. They sit by the awkward goodbyes and then laugh as soon as the door closes, gaining a “Shut up.” from Nick and a stern reprimand from their hungover minds.

After a brief breakfast consisting of pancakes-made by a reluctant Harry, of course, he excuses himself and heads back to his room to finish a paper due Monday. It’s about the symbolism behind pictures of recent media or something, but it’s fairly easy to do, and he finishes it by midday.

His roommate is out, so Harry takes his time in the shower, and he figures it’s his only chance of having a great wank, but he doesn’t really feel like it so he scrubs his skin twice and gets out, reveling in the patterns that the steam dances in.

He sits down on his bed and grabs his iPod, plugging in the earphones and playing Ben Howard to calm his nerves. The beating of his heart slows down, as do his thoughts, the world around him dissolving into a soft background buzz.

Harry reaches for the notebook he keeps by his bed and neatly prints the date and the words ‘Monday Column’ on the top. He situates his pen as to start, but his mind draws blank.

There are several things he could talk about. Maybe how this winter seems harsher, or how the classes need to be repainted. He could as well describe his boredom or describe the picture of the Friday parties, but none of those scream to get out and spill themselves into the blank paper.

He tries for a while, to force them, push those ideas into words but they’re reluctant to, and so is he, so he gives up. He stares at the ceiling until even that seems unappealing, and he has to get out. Grabbing his bag, he does just that, heading to a café he knows well.

 

***

 

His coffee is strong, and as Harry munches on his muffin that he thinks counts as lunch, he sees the staff shift, a girl and a short boy at her side exiting the café. They become small figures as Harry watches them go.

People come in and out of the shop as Harry sips quietly in the corner, book in hand acting as a distraction. No one bothers him, not even the ideas he desperately needs nor a friend for a ‘hi’, and he appreciates it; drinks up the solitude he rarely has. It’s a small pause in the cycle, rare and precious.

However his eyes get tired soon, so he distracts himself with looking out the window and catching several people amidst a game of football, a couple kissing and a stray cat prancing. None are interesting, none spark up ideas.

He gets frustrated.

That night he goes out to a small pizza place with Niall and some others. They laugh and drink and have fun, but he feels the constant nagging of dissatisfaction poking him all night. They ask what’s wrong and he tells them he just can’t get inspired, so they offer their empathy, but Ed is the only one with useful advice.

“Go out for a walk really early, it always works when I need my head to work right.” He says, and Harry considers it thoroughly before deciding that he has nothing to lose when the deadline is in two days and he's gotten no work done.

On Saturday, his alarm fails him, and he ends up waking up at eleven, which is useless really,  so he goes for a coffee. He sees the same working boy, who rings a bell but he lets it slide. That night he watches the stars from his window, but even his favourite sparkles fail him and he pockets his notebook that is now adorned with several crossed out starters.

Come Monday his nerves wake up him early, so he follows Ed’s advice and changes into warm clothes, feeling the fresh morning air hit his face first thing when he walks out. There are No students in sight, and as he checks his watch he realizes it is 7:30, two hours before classes even start.

Harry chooses a trail and starts walking on it, taking in how the trees have no leaves and no animals are in sight. His legs accommodate to the rhythm and the silence welcomes his visible puffs of air. They hang around and then dissipate, the cold not enough to maintain them, but still enough to make Harry’s nose red and fingers stiff.

Some students start to come out of their dorms, sleepy faces the norm. They are all clutching their coffee almost as tight as Harry his untouched notebook, the most needed things at the time held in a deathly grip.

Harry pushes himself to appreciate new things, the blurs of colour and the soft chats, but none make his soul burst with words. He draws blank every time he tries, and the letters evade him, as his insides are any better than the outside.

 After an hour, he gives up and starts heading back, frustrated that nothing seemed to work, but keeping in mind that his class starts soon. He grabs his bag and goes out again, reliving that he still has half an hour to kill till his nine am class.

He starts walking to his favourite café, but the line is so long he crosses the street and heads to the park that is on the opposite side of the street.

The grass is mildly wet with dew, the tiny droplets the only reminder of another past weekend. He walks in the direction of the playground, hoping for a swing, but they’re all wet, so he sits next to a tree instead, thinking that dew is just moisture.

He is wrong, but his butt is already soaked so he figures it makes no difference if he stays there, back leaned against the lumpy trunk of a great oak. Harry takes in the picture, more and more students awakened by shrilling alarms, their eyes frantic and hands clutching mugs as lifelines. They seem desperate and it’s sad that they are at such a young age, but Harry watches them pass as ghosts, leaving no recognizable trail behind.

He slowly takes his notebook out and looks into the café, looking for ideas inside the warm shop. He can barely see through the crowd, but then the door opens and the other day’s shift changer comes out, balancing a tray with several coffees.

The first thing Harry notices about him is how mechanical he moves. His arm stretches out just enough as to deposit the cup, his legs walk in exact steps, one foot and then the other, calculated. His head held nor high nor low, just there. It’s odd.

Then, he notices how pretty he is. The boy is short, but curvy, with his jean clad legs shaped up in appealing ways and shirt big enough to show some traces of ink. His face is partially illuminated by the sun peeping through the branches, as if nature wanted to spy on his beauty as well, and it brightens his shadowed face.

From where Harry is sitting, he can distinguish a pair of delicate cheekbones, and a swept fringe that just begs for hands to mess it up (Not Harry’s for he wouldn’t dare disrupt such structural perfection). He can’t see if the boy has dimples or crinkles, because in the time he has spent analyzing his uniqueness, he hasn’t smiled once.

Harry wants him to, wants to see the delicate raise of thin, pink lips; the joy it’d display. He wants to see what kind of smile he has, and if it is as secretive as his persona implies, or if it is an open invitation to the wonders he must enthrall; he needs to contemplate if the stranger is ashamed of it or proud of it, because he’d like to know if such prettiness is admired by the owner.

But there is no such luck, for the boy slips inside again, with his lips unmoving, and Harry continues in his trance like state.

He vaguely feels his mind whirring and hand moving. He feels ideas curse through his veins and his heart beats louder, its encouragements palpitating in Harry’s chest. He feels like he could burst, and then again jump and play around for this is what he wanted. He wanted to feel jittery with the power of unsaid words, to marvel at the way his foot is now twitching, his hand aching as he writes.

The ink flows and so does he, the traces inking pieces of himself into the paper, pieces he wants to expose and have others have; for he has plenty of them. He finally feels inspired, and as he gets up for his lesson several minutes later, notebook filled with newly printed ideas, he feels satisfied.

 

***

 

“Here.” Harry says as he hands Aiden the content of his column, all printed neatly into square letters and writing mistakes corrected. The boy merely motions with his hand, so Harry plops it down on his desk and makes a move to go, but he hears Aiden click his tongue behind him.

“What?” He asks, turning around to face the seemingly confused teen.

“Why are there two pages?” Aiden asks, and Harry’s stomach tightens with nervousness.

Truth in all, Harry had written the column for the next day’s paper, but after he had been done, his hands hadn’t stopped working, transforming other thoughts of his into words as well. He had ended up with a poem, but not about him, nor about the world, but about his inspiration, and it seemed unfair to withhold the source of ideas from the ones it had enlivened.  All of them. They were his as well, after all.

“Oh, well one is the column itself and the other is,” Harry starts, sighing about what he’s going to do next. “It’s a poem for someone, yeah?”

Aiden noticeably coos at that, but is otherwise unfazed. “Anyone special?” he pries, and Harry thinks that anyone with such an inspiring power is, but he refuses to say such things.

“Just post it under Curly, please.” He says instead, knowing full well that his boss wouldn’t appreciate him abusing his column powers on the first day. Good impressions only lasted that long when one did things as stupid as this.

“You are so corny.” Aiden states, but his lips are forming a smile, and Harry knows that deep inside, he is a fan of romantic things. (If he wants to confuse this as one, Harry is no one to stop him. If it’ll get it printed without strange looks, it can be whatever anyone makes it into).

 

///

 

**Tuesday’s advice, by Harry Styles:**

_Sometimes, we get do crazy things to get ideas. We wake up at the crack of dawn (Thanks Ed) or go for nightly rides at one AM; we jump, we sing, we laugh. And yet, sometimes inspiration comes in the simplest of things. Maybe it’s that special someone, that that lights up your face without even trying, or maybe it’s your silly dog, with new antics every day. Nature, as well, so I say: Do not push, for if you force things out, it will come out as just that, forced. Ideas are flow; they are our brain’s water or some metaphoric thing like that. My advice of this week is notice things, because in them, you’ll find more ideas than you ever would in the same, old, used now._

****

**_Editor’s note: Someone sent us a poem this week, and fans of action as we are, we decided to post it._ **

To the blue eyed boy at the café

Why are you sad?

When at nine I walk by

looking at you, sorrowful lad

And it seems to me you could be a Clive

A John or maybe a Chad

But none of those ring of you

And your carefully drawn fringe that light cascades on

And on which you hide upon.

So tell me,

Can I ever see a smile?

A faint glimmer of teeth

Some wrinkles by your eyes?

Because happiness is my hearts fuel

And seeing you run so empty

Makes it ache

~Curly

 

***

***

**Tuesday 19th**

As soon as the breakfast rush dwindles down, Louis goes behind the counter and drops his head, closing his eyes and taking in the moment. The coffee shop is almost quiet, save for two or three customers, and it’s such a rare event that Louis soaks it all in, savoring that absence of chit chat.

His head has almost recovered from last night, but a faint throb echoes in the distance, hidden in a place not even the strongest of pills he’s tried can reach. The coffee machine whirrs in the distance, a click, clank every once in a while. Louis has no intention of checking why.

Most of the time, working in the coffee shop isn’t that bad. He gets to interact with loads of annoying people, have coffee stained clothes, and be given lousy tips. Yeah, dream job, but he can’t complain when it pays relatively well and he gets to serve alongside Perrie and Leigh Anne, and he really is quite fond of them.

They let him choose the music that’s played, but since any kind of heavy rock is forbidden, he’s content with listening to the top forties: songs he dare not say he knows word by word but to which he dances as lattes and frappuccinos are being brewed.

Still, as the latest Ke$ha song plays softly, he relaxes for a minute, feeling his back appreciate the small rest. Sleeping on the floor does tend to destroy it for a while.

When he no longer feels like falling to the floor and codling it till he sleeps, Louis gets his head off the table and picks up the newspaper out of boredom. Maybe some intellectual boy will come pick him up and they’ll live happily ever after, or at least he’ll know what’s going on at the uni; rare thing these days.

His blue eyes quickly scan the pages, reading over some water accident in building one and the firing of one teacher he vaguely recalls as being friendly but can’t really be sure. All of them tend to blur together after three years of classes.

As he flips over the pages, skipping ads that promise a ‘bicycle in great state’ and ‘free tutoring lessons in biology’, he comes to the last one, where he dives into the comics and inevitably breaks into a smile. It’s been ages since he took the time to notice them.

Some chuckles escape him as his eyes flip from box to box, mind following the crazy antics of a loveable dog. There are others as well, and when he’s done, he feels a bit lighter. Happier, even.

Louis lifts his eyes and finds the café the same as ever, so his eyes trail down and take in the rest of the page. A column takes up the side, but he ignores it, because he isn’t really in the mood to read some old gal writing about the past and the nostalgia it dusts up. Below it though, he finds something unexpected: a poem.

Blue traces the words, and a small gasp escapes him as they fully set in.

“ _To the blue eyed boy at the café …”_

Louis is a boy. Louis has blue eyes. Louis is the only boy working the morning shift at the café.

 

Shit.

Someone has written a poem about him? Does he even know this boy? Who the hell even writes poems these days?

He quickly finishes reading the rest, and his mind draws blank when he thinks of who could’ve sent this. Liam is too upfront, Zayn too lazy and really, who notices a stranger at a café?

No one, no one does; and Louis’s mind is starting to go into overdrive when a cough startles him.

“Excuse me, I’d like an espresso with an extra shot and double whipped cream please.” A high pitched voice squeaks, and Louis lifts his eyes to find a young girl tapping insistently on her phone.

His mind doesn’t quite process it.

“What?” he asks, lost. He is still trying to figure out what’s going on when the girl lets out an exasperated sigh and repeats the order, her voice reaching impossibly high, nasal levels. “Oh yeah, that’ll be two pounds.”

Robotically, he takes the money and gets busy with making the coffee while he tries to sort the swarm of thoughts currently buzzing through his mind. When he hands it to the girl, a line has formed.

Louis sighs and gets to work.

 

***

 

He doesn’t get a break until he has to leave with a chatting Perrie at his side. His classes don’t let him have a second to himself either, and when he exits the literature building, he is truly exhausted. On the walk home he plays some rocky music and takes languorous steps, slowly getting on the bus and then off it on the way home.

Louis’s apartment is already thrumming with music as he gets there, the gentle strumming of a guitar and the steady beat of drums gently easing themselves into his heart through his ears. They nestle there, along with the unique scent and creak of the door when he pushes at it, and it makes his chest swell just the slightest but enough for Louis to release the tensions of the day and sigh contentedly.

“Oh, hey Lou!” calls Liam from behind the drum kit, his hands holding on to the cymbals to prevent their ringing clash from obstructing his warm voice. Zayn doesn’t notice, and his tattooed hands keep working the strings of the guitar, a series of complicated movements resulting in a sweet melody that comes out of speakers at his side.

“Hi Liam, could you tell your boyfriend to stop trying to be a rock god for a minute so he can make us both dinner?” Louis shoots back, mockingly sweet. His stomach hasn’t stopped rumbling since about two hours ago, but he reasons that maybe a chocolate from the vending machine wasn’t much of a lunch to begin with.

Liam chuckles and stands up, going behind Zayn and slowly taking his hand off the strings. Zayn looks startled, but when he turns around the look in his face is so fond that Louis has to force his eyes away.

“Urgh, I’ll be in my room if you need me, boys!” Louis calls as he turns around, picking up the bag and heading down the hall. Before closing the door he calls out a “And if you fuck in the kitchen, I don’t want to know!” And laughing when he hears two indignant squeals.

His assignments are easy, and they allow his mind to soar over the Shakespearean ways and infrastructure of Greek theatres and into the earlier events. His mind hasn’t really finished processing that there is someone out there that noticed him; someone that consciously watched him and _paid attention_ to the details.

Louis thinks he should feel creeped out, he thinks that his mind should be screaming at him to be careful, that though people notice they always have a motive, but he really can’t find any in the soft spoken- printed -words.

He reaches for his bag and takes out the paper he’d hastily snatched before leaving the café, quickly flipping to the last page. There, the words remain as before, black and bold even though their meaning is tender and confessional. It feels like relieving a memory, and Louis wonders when that boy, or girl he reminds himself, saw him. Was it while he served or rested, was he even looking good while he did so?

It’s an open window straight into endless possibilities, and Louis’s mind leaps at them,  taking in each and fully examining them before jumping to the next, gears turning in his head as he falls into the endlessness.

One feeling stands out from the masses, and it guides his hands to the scissor and suddenly he’s cutting straight along the imaginary lines that frame the poem, going along until the only thing he has in his hand is the cut out. _Possessiveness,_ because even though it’s multiplied in thousands of issues, this poem, this particular one, is his and it’s made just for him.

He savours the words once more, cocooned now by the soft blankets of his bed, taking them in and fully exploring them in the vastness of his mind. His insides feel warm, and his cheeks blush now, a late reaction to being watched. He doesn’t usually mind- he’s studying to be a teacher, he can handle attention- it’s just that from an anonymous source. It makes him feel like a giggly teen, worked up because his crush did something cute.

Not that this ‘Curly’ is his crush because he has no idea who it is, but in some way Louis feels the beginning of a bond being built. Like an outstretched hand he can either take or-

“Come on you hermit, dinner’s ready!” Zayn’s voice calls through the flat, and Louis is getting really tired of people interrupting him, but this time it’s with food so he dcan’t bring himself to care.

He gets up and shuffles over to the table, where Liam is just setting down plates piled up with rice and tomatoes, and sits down, picking up the fork and shoving a forkful in before the other boys can notice and reprimand his manners. He gets away with it, but when he accidentally smiles some rice falls and he gets a stern look from Liam, to whom he shoots an innocent grin.

When Zayn appears with a couple of beers from the kitchen, they sit down and begin eating, the couple on one side and Louis on the other, each telling the other about their days.

Louis contemplates telling them, but then Zayn’s talking about how excited he is about an upcoming gig and he gets carried away in the enthusiasm, his heart beating faster just from the idea.

When the emotion tapers, Liam drones on and on about one of his professors, and when it’s Louis’ turn to talk, he notices their plates are done and shuts up in favour of picking them up. They had set it, and the conversation flows on well enough while he leaves.

Once they’re all washed and tidied up, Louis heads back into the living room and sees Liam behind the drums again with Zayn loitering on the couch, messing around on his guitar, both eying the instruments wishfully.

Liam perks up when he enters the room, “We just thought maybe we could jam for a while, see if we can come up with a new song for the gig or somethin’.” Liam explains and Louis nods, plopping down on the couch opposite to Zayn and thanking himself for bringing a bottle of water with him from the kitchen.

Lightly, Liam starts tapping a beat, an incessant _ta dump ta dam tss_ , that is tentatively joined by a couple of strummed notes, wavering in the air momentarily before the next one strums in, each taking the spotlight for a second and moving on in an endless dance, one after the other.

Louis knows he could join any time, grab his piano and add to the melody or start breathing out lyrics, but he is transfixed by the way in which, unnoticed by them, Liam and Zayn’s beats just melt together, as if one was the continuation of the other, soft when the other’s hard, balancing the high and the low.

They have always been inseparable, but now their _passions_ are, and they flow so well that Louis is flabbergasted for a second. Liam then looks up and catches Zayn’s gaze, talking to him without even producing a sound, he lets the tapping of foot on the pedal and the mellifluous bounce of the stick on the drum talk for him in grave notes that say it all.

It could be an _I care, I love you_ or an _I need you._ It could be an _I bought something today_ , or _my class is terrible_. It could be a _whatever_ , because all of this shows tenderness and care, and in Liam’s sound, that is what resonates.

Logically, Zayn answers. He answers in drawn out, powerful notes; in combinations that culminate in that one pitch Louis can never reach; he answers in complications, in misleading paths that always end up somewhere but never seem to fully finalize, stretching out in the faintest of silences.

Zayn paints their story. He takes in the sorrowful pining months, the fights and trashed rooms; he elicits the anger, the pain and the heartbreak, but that’s how it works, that’s why it molds because happy isn’t so without sad and Liam isn’t him without Zayn.

They are the music, Louis is the words, but as he stares to the exchange he realizes he doesn’t really fit in. Well, he does, but in a jagged way, with open pieces calling for a union, for someone to come and fill the rest. The notes are whole per se, but without complimenting ones, without grave tones for his high falsettos, he will never shine as bright as he could. He does shine now, or at least on stage he does, but not blindingly, not unmercifully he doesn’t, he just sparkles and pales in comparison.

As Liam and Zayn stare into each other, Louis’s mind crumbles and turns cold. They’re his friends, he loves them, he _does_ , but they’re not the kind of love he needs right now; their united melody don’t match up with his loose ends and that, that makes the known, crippling loneliness flood him.

He abruptly excuses himself by saying he needs to finish up some assignment he’s forgotten and promptly disappears into his room.

Familiarly, his hands itch for a pen and paper, places where he has poured feelings into countless songs moment after moment, but this time, there’s no melody in his head to accompany the lyrics, no pressing need to expose this part of him. No, this time it feels different, private and as his hand jerks to a stop, his eyes land on the piece of cut out newspaper.

Yeah, it’s definitely not a song.

 

***

 

The next morning finds Louis bleary eyed and a mess behind the counter, his pockets stuffed and bag thrown carelessly on one corner of the kitchen. His co-workers notice, Perrie even offering to cover for him, but he waves her off, saving her favour for days that are surely going to be more terrible than this.

His mind retreats to that automated coffee making place, and his consciousness wavers at times, but he manages to successfully get through the donut-smelling morning and straight into class, where Zayn pokes him in order to keep him awake. The result is a very grumpy afternoon Louis, and as he’s finally making his way out of the last class, his phone rings.

Sticking his hand into his pocket, the first thing he finds is the poem, and his eyes widen with realization. This morning he had been sure of himself (if someone had sent a poem to him, then he could certainly answer), but now, swarmed with people that could know his issues with a glance at the news, he faltered.

His feet keep on moving, _right left, right left_ , until he is in front of the Daily Leeds building, an office block he hasn’t visited much, or at all. The first desk he encounters is used by a young man and thoughtlessly Louis asks him, “Do many people read the back page?” though the answer was trivial.

“Not many, why?” The boy wonders, a curious look in his eyes.

His nerves are twisting his gut into spasmic snakes, but the boy is now staring at him with interested eyes. Louis isn’t really in the mood to explain, he thought he’d handle the embarrassment of note sending like nine year old girl a bit better, but apparently not, so in a momentary rush of adrenaline, he leaves the poem and runs out before he has a chance to regret it.

Of  course, he  misses the way those eyes lit up and a “Harry!” was called out soon after.

 

***

 

**Editors note: Seems like we got an answer, guys:**

 

 I wish I could blame a stray dog

Or countless nights of insomnia

For the way I feel.

Maybe a lost friend due to paranoia

Or how I paddle and paddle

But always need a tow.

Even in the best hour

Dear mystery C,

I feel like caving

Done in the worst of ways.

Lost, empty, and forgotten

And I apologize for my terrible rhyme

But it’s hard to think, when your sanity’s on the line

And there’s nothing left

To make sense of.

~L 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, hi guys! You may have noted that i've added haroline to the tags, but believe me it's just that a BIT that shouldn't keep you from reading, like seriously just check if you don't believe me, it's barely there.  
> Besides that, enjoy!

**Friday 22st**

Harry is having breakfast when he first notices it; the pages crumpled but loud and clear nonetheless.  It’s the Daily Leeds, the one from yesterday, and though he’s already read it, he glances over it again, his eyes pausing when he notices something he hadn’t seen yesterday. On the last page amongst the ads and miscellaneous pieces, he sees a poem.

Intrigued, he snatches it off the table and scans it, his eyes widening and mouth dropping. It’s a reply. It is a solid, eighteen lines long, reply to his poem, and it just can’t be a joke no one reads the last page, or at least no one with such lyrical capacity, and the ways he feels it insides, its muttered words, is not random; it’s a mirror of what he’d felt while eying the other boy on Monday.

His green eyes trace the words again, and he takes it in. Feels the sanity escape the other boy, absorbs the hint of incredulousness that lies amongst the lines, as if he’d replied thinking no one was going to read, but Harry does. He marvels in the loneliness irradiating, in how lost the other boy sounds. He wishes to reach out, cradle the lost soul, drawn to the pretty boy whose sadness is so much more than what he’d pictured.

Quickly, he gets up , fetches his bag, only backtracking when his fedora drops, and exits the small dorm, his cup of coffee and toast forgotten on the tabletop. His legs stretch and step as his mind processes what he’ll do.

The thing is, he doesn’t want to rush it, doesn’t want to push this beautiful boy into thinking he’s a creep. He just wants to say hi, and ask him out for a friendly walk sometime, figures that if his assumptions are correct, the boy needs a friend and well, he has a chance to be that friend. To make those eyes, which are blue but nothing more in his mind though he’d like to change that, crinkle in the corners, skin pulled tight with expressed emotion, to make him feel happy, not lost as he describes his heart beatings.

It’s no supernatural wish, and maybe it’s selfish because Harry wants that too (to have a new friend, someone with the sparkle and shininess that the other boy must have), only clouded due to his sadness. He thinks the tan boy could be that, the dash of adventure he craves in his grey life, but he doesn’t want to burden him with that, either. He simply wants to make the other boy happy, and if in the process he finds what he needs there, then it’ll be good, and if he doesn’t, it’ll be great as well because he will have pulled out the other boy from the sinking mist that is sadness and offered him an escape. Sometimes he wishes someone could do that for him.

As he closes the door he shakes his head, not wanting to get ahead of himself, doesn’t want to make his mind up about ‘saving’ someone that may not need saving, or at least not the kind that comes from a friendship. ‘lost’ may not mean the way he pictures or recalls from faint, repressed memories, ‘forgotten’ may not be the kind of forgotten he imagines; but he’ll try his best, because he can’t lose anything by trying (he hopes.)

Soon, his legs are cruising the zombie-like masses, evading cups of coffee that seem to be everywhere, threatening to spill on his shirt and he really can’t have that because then he’d be the typical uni student and well, he tries to stray from that. It really is overdone.

As the café comes into view, Harry halts his stride and peers over the crowd, standing on his tiptoes and really, why are there so many people awake at this time? It makes it really hard to spot the blue eyed bartender, but when he does; he catches him peering over at the crowd, so he ducks hastily. Harry doesn’t really want his first impression to be that of a crazy stalker, because he doesn’t think he really is.

Cheeks almost imperceptibly tinged pink, Harry walks along with the stumbling crowd until he reaches the café where on the other side, he can see the barista with the sad face. Breathing in deep, because his poems may be nice but he reckons he is quite silly and may very possibly make a fool of himself in there, Harry tugs the door open and steps into the vanilla scented shop. His gangly limbs stride until he is face to face with the counter, and bent below it, the surprise poet. Harry reaches out as to call his attention, fingertips grazing and- _“I’m bleeding out, so if the last thing that I do..”_  starts ringing from his pocket,  and Harry startles before turning around and taking the blasting device from his pocket. Hastily, he answers, with his back turned from the counter now, his reddened cheeks burning as the other customers stare.

He barely registers the voice on the other side as he flees from the scene, the amused faces of many on his mind, probably caused by his reaction or the loudness of the ringtone. Once he is on the other side of the crystal door, he fails to see the oblivious face of the barista who is just getting up, instead focusing for once and all on the words uttered from the speaker.

“…so I went shopping and found Marissa who is pregnant now Harry! I couldn’t believe it and then she invited me to her baby shower and I told her we would come and so we need to go out and buy her a present and I am free today at lunch so I got my nails done and called you.” Caroline says, her voice squeaky and excited for something Harry fails to catch, his mind running and cheeks cooling down with the winter air blasting them from all directions with icy daggers.

He notices a break and hums in assertion, but to what he doesn’t know.

“So is midday good for you? The usual place at twelve?” She asks, ignoring the flatness in his attitude. Harry makes an assertive grunt and then she’s saying goodbye, her voice soon gone from his head.

Pocketing his phone, Harry slumps into a park bench for mere seconds, noticing that his next class starts soon. He sighs and gets going, his mind racing with thoughts and feet speeding down the concrete.

 

***

 

The professor gives a fairly involved class and it helps to keep his mind from wandering over the hour. As soon as it lets out though, he is drawn into the same old pattern of walking over to the small restaurant just off the university campus.

His scruffy white converse cause the lady by the counter to stare, but when he says his name she recognizes him and shows him to the usual table. It’s the same as always: the perfect vase with a single flower, no wilting or rough handling noticeable; the folded napkin, architecturally set with angles that surely required expert hands, over by the polished cutlery that reflect the chocolate of his curls and the grey of his blank face. It’s all perfect, elegant and flawless as Caroline likes it and Harry tolerates it with small puffs of air to shake his hair and a window by the side to distract him. It’s the only thing he’s ever requested there be at the table.

Ten minutes and bordering fashionably late, Caroline shows up, her pumps and jeans immaculate as her hair. Harry gets up to greet her and she kisses him softly, and though he despises the sticky goo of lipstick she leaves behind, he allows it. She pretends not to notice as they take their seats, her smile as fake as her tan.

The thing is that he doesn’t mind her, she is nice and chats about things that are rarely interesting, but when they are, they can talk like the old friends they are. They can pretend they can still stand, that their ‘love’ is still there and that it doesn’t affect them, the blatant lack of it, but it does and Harry is so tired of it all, he doesn’t even attempt to listen as he always does, he just drifts off.

His mind replays this morning incidents and he scoffs lightly, mentally slapping himself for having let a fantasy take him. What was he thinking when he went there, that he’d be the savior? That his jeans and shirt would merge into shining armor and he’d gallop into the sunset? He can’t even save himself from reality, the thought of him going to change someone else it’s ridiculous.

His frown deepens as he remembers how alone the other boy had been, and his mentality to be there, but he realizes now, what use would it be? He’d be bland, boring, burnt by the spark the other boy would cause and it would consume him completely, burning the wood that’s up for use, as forgotten and dried up as he is. He’d burn everything else as well, his running mind, his torn up mentality, his ideals, his memory, all of it, running through the pent up emotions in a whisk, with his luminescence unmatched by any, or no one he has ever seen.

Those lips and tan skin weren’t made for frowning, no, they were made for shining, but Harry’s white skin and blushing cheeks were not, they were made for consumption, and that he would do if he went near such a thing, of he attempted to increase the way he glowed. He doesn’t have the time to carefully approach it and bask in it either, so it’s better to not have it all, because if he did now, he may extinguish him.

Sure, Harry thought he had the strength to be a friend, to help the boy out, but really? He’s already stuck, so bland, the only thing he’d do is pull him in deeper.

It makes him a twinge sad, but that too fades. All feelings do eventually.

Caroline talks and talks and her lips move but Harry ignores it until she snaps her fingers in front of his face, clearly pissed off.

“Were you even listening Harry? I swear it’s like talking to a rock, you never answer anything! You just stand there, all fake thoughtful; and look you haven’t even touched your food! You’re useless sometimes!” She complains her eyes fiery as they locked into amused green. This is new.

Caroline never complains, it’s the thing. She may huff and puff and threaten Harry but her precious image prevents her from calling Harry out in public places. They’re the ‘golden’ couple, and for both Harry’s parents and her image, Harry ignores it, but they go to this nice restaurant and chat and they’re a nice couple, and nothing more. Nice, not loving or cute or even funny, they’re nice. Harry thinks he has never hated any thing more than that.

“I’m sorry.” He replies, amused by her change but too tired to ignore her. It’s easier to apologize and tune her out. The words seem to be enough for Caroline who looks at him dubiously before plastering on a smile and rambling on and on about something or other.

The lunch drags to a close and then he’s getting peckered again and sent out, his curls shaking in the freezing air. The campus is almost deserted, and as he makes his way to his dorm he can see some groups of friends scattered here and there, getting ready for a night out. He relishes in the knowledge that in an hour, he’ll be warm and cozy under his covers watching some cooking show with no one to budge him.

 

***

 

On Monday after class, he makes his way to the Daily Leeds’ building, his bag bumping against his leg insistently while he walks brusquely through the cold January air. There are some people out, but none seem to be enjoying the climate, and neither is he.

The offices are as bland as ever, and he plops down in a free desk, resting his head for a minute. He can feel the edges of a cold threatening him, but he ignores it in favour of getting up and fetching his notebook, pen in mouth and mind open to ideas.

In that moment he is glad for his lunch with Caroline the other day as he scribbles on and on about continuity and boredom and other topics that may be too abstract for a university newspaper but they’re real feelings and he’s a firm believer in writing from the heart, so they stay. Soon he’s finished, and after double checking, he powers on the computer.

Fingers pressing harshly, Harry finishes up in fifteen minutes, and he’s sending the file over to Aiden. Soon after, he hears Aiden call out for him.

“Harry, come over here!” the boy screams and Harry laughs at the unnecessary volume in the otherwise empty space but gets up anyways, gathering his stuff since he may as well leave already.

When he’s face to face with him, Harry can make out the confusion in Aiden’s features.

“Why is there only a column text in the file you sent me?” Aiden asks, eyes glancing up from the screen to meet Harry’s.

“Well I was asked to write just a column?” he replies uncertainly, fully aware of how Aiden sighs and shakes his head while looking up.

“I know but don’t play smart with me, Harry. Where’s the poem for mystery boy?” Aiden wonders, his voice harsher than Harry would’ve imagined. The interest surprises him to say the last.

He can feel his cheeks turning a slight shade of red when he mutters out the answer. “There isn’t one.”

“Why not?” Aiden prods, but his tone has lowered, as if he realizes he is treading on fragile subjects, which he really is. Harry remembers his own stupidity from earlier that morning.

“Because I don’t have to Aiden! I don’t have to answer him, he doesn’t need me to. He replied okay, fine, that’s it.” Harry shoots back, his words sharp and to the point, a _‘because I don’t know what to do with him’_ is left unsaid.

“But you guys could’ve been friends or something! Come on, Harry don’t be stupid, at least try.” Aiden says, his eyes finding Harry’s again, and Harry doesn’t need this, another voice telling him what he knows, what he feels he’ll miss, because it may actually convince him that what he wants to do is right, even if he shouldn’t.

“What’s to lose?” Aiden asks, and Harry’s mind replies _my sanity, balance, and routine_ just after his mouth breathes out,

“Nothing.”

Aiden gives him a pointed look and goes back to typing, “Just don’t forget I need it by eight tonight.” He says as Harry leaves. He thinks there may be a hint of a smile there.

 

***

 

**So here’s how it continues gals! Here’s the newest:**

 

You sound melancholic L,

And still your words bleed pleas

Of help, company, or a simple friend.

I do not know why

But I do recon I’d like to,

To immerse myself in the person you must be

Behind these printed lines

Grey and boring

Threateningly impersonal

 

I am a stranger

A mere bypasser

But in the written word

I feel like much more

So let’s take it slow

And tell me,

Were you ever not alone?

 

~C

***

**Tuesday 28th**

Louis' bare feet pad through the wooden floor, the soft sounds echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. It's six pm, and Liam and Zayn are off doing God knows what, their advisory texts intentionally vague, but he doesn't really care, as long as they return on time and they don't smell like they just fucked each others brains out which has happened-more than once.

His cup of tea is lukewarm but he sips it nonetheless, his feet propped up on the couch as his laptop boots up. It's an old thing, battered and covered in stickers but Louis loves it nonetheless, says it gives it 'attitude' or something, though everyone knows he is just too broke and lazy to replace it. The startup screen is bright as Louis snuggles into his fuzzy comforter, the fleece acting as a barrier against the coldness that surrounds him. The heater is broken, and though Louis puffs and swears every time he has to move from his cocoon, he doesn't call the landlord. Liam will do that, he knows how to handle it ,but in the meantime, it's just him and the blanket against the icy monster that tickles his toes and turns his cheeks pink.

Louis types in his password and taps the side of the computer as Skype starts up, face splitting into a megawatt grin when he notices his sister is online. He quickly clicks her and soon, her face appears on the screen.

Lottie's hair has gotten longer, but nothing else seems to have changed. Her big, light eyes are still wide as she takes in her brother, lips pink as ever where they stretch over pearly whites, and sweetness still intact as the day she was two, doe eyed and babbling. The same sparkle is still there but it feels slightly different. Luckily it is not dimmed but shifted, from innocently traced to a more mature shine in her eyes.

"Louis!" Lottie shrieks, clearly excited.

On the other side of the screen Louis smiles back, giving a wave that conceals the same unabashed excitement upon seeing her.

They haven't talked as frequently as he'd like and promised to his mother when he'd left to study, different schedules and terrible planning the excuse, but he certainly misses them. His mother's calls leave him in a state every time, her voice tired in ways he cannot change. It's useless, but he cannot help but savour every sadistic minute he spends at them. He talks about his life some, but he prefers to hear the latest Tomlinson news, reveling in the brief feeling of being there.

Louis has always been close to his family, and leaving for uni was one of the hardest things he'd done, the faces if his family as he pulled away etched into his memory.

He tries to be there, to be somewhat present in the twins' preteen years and Lottie and Fizzy's tern rebellion, he really does, but he always ends up having to catch up and missing them like crazy, his heart aching for the understanding arms of his mother and cuddles of his sisters.

He had gone home this last christmas, surrounded himself with smiles and presents and family, but the warm, fuzzy feeling left him as soon as he'd stepped off the train platform. 

Scanning Lottie's face as he attempts to speak without sounding emotional reminds him of all of this, and he looks away before breathing in shakily and smiling again.

"Hey Lott," Louis says "how are things going over there?"

Lottie shakes her head at the silly nickname that stuck due to Louis teasing her and saying she was 'a lot' to handle, and then speaks.

"Fine. Fizzy is being extra cranky and the twins are as hyper as ever, so you know i think i'm the only sane one here." she says, her face scrunching up in ways Louis finds are just like when she was a five year old. She hasn't changed as much as she likes to think she has.

"Don't be mean, you're supposed to be the one in charge now!" Louis chastises but the grin on his face and the softness in his eyes may make it backfire.

Lottie chuckles and pauses for a thoughtful second,

her face softening before she mutters "I just miss you a lot you know? We all do."

Louis' smile falters for a second as he sighs ,running a hand through his hair and willing his voice to be steady before he looks at the screen again.

"I miss you guys too, and i wish i could visit or something but i have a gig tonight and the cafe shifts and lessons just take up so much time i can't be on much, and when i am we don't even match up." Louis explains, his face falling when Lottie nods because no, it's not okay. 

He should try better, he knows he should and he also reckons this is unfair and that it is not what he wants, but his attempts always fail, and he is tired of being sad at the offline icon and missing them so much. He has his degree to get though, and Liam and Zayn and the band, he can't just leave it all, so he resorts to taking it in while he can. He wishes he got gigs on regular days as well, it’d help some, he guesses, or at least i’d make his sleeping easier.

"I know." Lottie says, and now her face has fallen too and Louis hates it so he sucks in a big breath and arranges his lips into a smile that feels too fake to belong in a conversation with his family.

Well, all boo hoo over here but," Louis diverges, the uncomfortableness too much for him to bear. "is that a piercing young lady?" He asks a beat later, leaning in and speaking in a mock horror that isn't all that joking .The girls are growing up so fast it scares him a little, and it worries him that he may miss it all and wake up to adult sisters saying hello back.

Lottie laughs and nods, and Louis shakes his head but smiles nonetheless, for the mood is as heartwarming as he wants it to be. After a quick scolding (really, who would have imagined his baby sister with a metal thing in his ear?) Lottie calls out for the rest of the family, and then four equally excited faces pop up on the screen, the older one fond and bright as it scans Louis.

"Hi mom," he greets as all of them settle in on the other side, piled up on a fluffy pink bed. Louis feels slightly underdressed, his fringe sticking out in weird angles and shirt stained, and he is pretty sure the blanket itself is a mess too but ,who can blame him? In four hours he will have to look like a hot rockstar and his week old beard and probably wrinkled shirts aren't going to be helpful. Plus, he's late on the laundry. He really needs to pull himself together today.

"Hi baby," Jay says, smiling with pixelated lips on his screen. "how are you?"

Louis ponders the question for a second. He certainly is sleepy for they stayed up last night practicing for today's gig; he was bored but now just cannot be because his sisters are being silly and mother lovely; he is nervous, though reluctant to admit it, and then he is just a bit hungry so, okay. He is okay, Louis guesses.

"I'm fine mom," he says, noticing how Jay's smile is unfaltering at that, for he was never really a sharer. "how are things over there?"

"Good, good," she answers, face lighting up as she remembers something. "Oh grandpa was just here," her face falls, "you just missed him baby."

Louis's heart tugs at that. If he sees little of his sisters, he does even less of his other family members, grandparents unluckily included. It's a shame because really, the summers they used to spend together are on replay on his mind more than is probably healthy, his brain cruelly showing him sunny, endless days and smiling faces when he cannot go back to them.

He remembers them clearly, the summer escapades they made, grandparents in tow and tents on the bonnet. Louis can easily picture the great fire they'd make from twigs they'd gather in competition to see who got more, the sparking flames, the dances and euphoria. It felt like forever, sitting on a log in the middle of nowhere, the warmth of the fire barely noticeable as his family smiled all round him. No college or jobs or distance, just unabashed happiness glowing as bright as the fire.Louis loved the feeling, misses it. Safe and loved. Everything he can ever hope for.

"How's class?" Jay asks, and Louis is snapped out of his state, answering and carrying on with a mind not entirely there.

When he realizes it is already late- after an hour long boy rant by Lottie and school day recounting by the twins- he hastily says goodbye and hops into the shower.

Warm water flows around him, and Louis repeats encouraging words over and over, hoping for them to fill the emptiness that has taken over him now that the bright smiles and blonde hair mops are gone. They do little, but the carefully styled hair and eyeliner help, they being confidence boosters that Louis cannot go on stage without. As he leaves the flat, he spares his computer one last longing glance and shuts the door behind him.

***

The thing is, he loves being on stage ,revels in the adrenaline, the pump and the screams that come from the people just below the stage.

The bar is full, a thing that never fails to amuse them, how on a Tuesday people still want to see them play, and the lights are dimmed. A set of coloured flashes roam the audience, all of them drunk students that mouth lazily at the songs and move their glasses , the liquid inside sloshing everywhere. No one seems to care where it lands. No one seems to care about anything.

The air is thick with sweat and alcohol and it _buzzes_ , it shoots up and down the crowd, moving them in strange directions that resemble dances, but fail miserably at being just that. People look at them, a thumping Liam, a mellow Zayn and a hyped up Louis, all together and making music. He feels them, the eyes on him as he sings the last chorus of a song they wrote at three am, a slow song that isn’t even that; it is heartbreak and vodka and them trying to be good in a world of evil where evil is themselves, or a drunken rambling along the lines of that. The crowd eats it up and gives back cheers and hoots as he sings the last line, Liam’s beat getting slower and then stopping. The claps boom for a minute and then die down.

“Okay, this is the last song before we get spectacularly drunk, people,” Louis introduces, the crowd nodding because well, they’re already there. “this is Demons.”

It goes silent for a beat as Louis places the microphone on the stand and steps in closer, holding it like a lifeline as he hears the opening guitar chords. The buzz has gotten stronger, all the energy waiting to be released before this is over, before this strangers scramble and there is no more crowd or band or buzz or anything. It thrums and invades Louis as he closes his eyes and breathes out, willing his beat to just get under control for a second before he opens his eyes.

When he does, it’s like no one’s there. There is no crowd, no bar no band, just him and his song that feels just powerful enough to get him through the moment. He is in his own space, his mind perhaps or his adrenaline, but he is the same kid he was ten years ago, with a voice he hopes is good and a song that he loves and the _feeling._ The something that courses through his veins and makes him feel powerful, invincible. Everything else just fades away, unimportant in this world where the music just flows out of him, unrestrained and emotional.

Behind him he feels Liam and Zayn, their energy feeding his and viceversa, their own music mixing in with his voice. They are probably as into it as he is, the euphoria inescapable. It is what they’re here for, what they rehearse and write for, this moment.

Louis belts out the last line and then that’s it, people clap and he comes back from his own mind, takes everything in and holds it there, happy and complete as he wishes to ever be.

***

When he wakes up the next day, his hungover mind barely lets him get up and get breakfast, which he does slow and quiet as to not disturb the elephant stomping around on his head. The flat is thankfully quiet as he sits down and sips his tea, eyes ghosting over the Tuesday paper on the table. He flips on till he reaches the last page and smiles. The feeling he had on stage is now gone, has been since he hopped off the stage, and this makes a thrill run by him, so he figures,  why not?

***

**More!**

Family reunions

High school

And many more

I was happy at, C

Just not now

I can’t be.

Not with how things are going

Not with how my heart beats slower,

Sluggish I guess,

Or how I feel like falling.

 

I sound dramatic

I know

But I also admit

I’d like to stop.

To enjoy more in life

Than pulsing lights

And an euphoric self

I struggle to keep up with

~L


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, i know, i took a terribly long time to update and i'm super sorry but school has been a bitch lately, and it's 7k so i think maybe you can forgive me? :)  
> (Thanks to my beta's Claire and Sarah, who polish my roughness and to Ains, who i feel pushes this story along more than she's willing to reckon. Thanks to you all, really!)

Friday 29th

Harry is just getting out of class when his phone rings, the vibrations shaking him off his stupor. As he takes his phone out of his pocket, he sees a boy walking past him in a hurry and, briefly, he wonders where somebody could be going in such a rush on a Friday with the weekend stretched in front of them, two empty days for him to grab and use by staying in bed all day.

“‘ello?” he says as he brings the phone to his ear, praying that it’s not Nick with another party proposal. He does like going to them sometimes, but today he just really needs his peace and quiet.

“Hi dear,” comes the voice of his mum, soft and caring. “How have you been?” She asks, even though they’ve texted regularly through the week.

Harry knows the answer she hopes for is the one he’ll give (he always does) but he takes a beat longer, revelling in the tone she’s using, one he misses and rarely hears.

“Good,” he replies, kicking a stray pebble with his foot as he casts his head down, not even bothering to worry about who he may bump into.

He likes talking to his mother, he does, but his relationship with her hasn’t really been the best lately. The issues hanging between them are obvious, and though he ignores them left and right, they’re there, gathering pressure with each day, with each text and call.

Anne lets out a quiet sigh before speaking again, but this time it’s not warm, not genuine. “You should come over during the weekend, you and Caroline. Robin says you haven’t really been home much lately.” Her tone isn’t as much suggestive as it is demanding. He doesn’t have a real say in anything, and he knows it.

Harry curses quietly under his breath, careful as to not to be heard, and tilts his head up, wondering why Robin would choose this weekend above any other else. He still has to write the column, organize a couple of classes and finish a paper, all of which cannot be done if he’s hanging out with Caroline and Robin. He attempts to enjoy the idea, tries to appreciate the conversation he’s currently being engaged in, but there is no use in lying to himself: he dreads it.

He wants to say no, he does, but he hasn’t in a while, and to do it now, though tempting, would mean serious trouble. He knows not to mess with Robin, and this way he gets to keep the balance orderly. Plus he gets to see his mother which is always a reward. Harry really hopes Gemma is there too. He smiles at the thought.

“Sure,” He replies, visualizing the good rather than the bad. “We’ll be there tomorrow at midday.”

“Great!” Replies Anne, and Harry’s smile widens at the genuine enthusiasm.

Maybe it’ll be okay this time.

They exchange goodbyes just as Harry is walking up the steps to his dorm, and he enters it seconds later, making a beeline for the bed. He flops onto it, feeling his lids become heavier with each passing minute.

Moments later, he’s asleep, his still clothed body arranged messily on the ruffled duvet. He dreams of cars and beaches and words that tumble him over. He dreams of coffee and magazines and the smell of freedom, dreams until his mind decides he has been allowed several minutes too many of blissful escape and slowly soaks up all of the color, leaving only a black that slowly dissipates.

The next time he awakes, he’s got a crick in his neck and a pillow stuffed between the bed and himself, one he doesn’t remember getting. His wrinkled shirt smothers minimally as he sits up and rubs his eyes, trying uselessly to shake out the sleepiness that is so familiar he can almost feel it seep out his bones.

All Harry wants to do is flop back down and continue his dream, but his eyes land on his phone and he sighs, scratching the back of his neck before he gets up. His limbs protest as he puts them in motion and takes the device in his hands, shooting a useless advisory text to Caroline, who has already heard the brilliant news from his mother, most likely. She answers, but the phone is already dumped on the bed when she does, a small bag on its side.

Harry is crouched down and ransacking his lower drawer for a pair of jeans when he hears Niall whistle, an ability of his roommate’s he hadn’t noticed.

“Ya’ ain’t got much behind Harry,” he says, a playful undertone marked by his chuckle. “But you work flatness like no one else.”

“Oh fuck off,” Harry shoots back with a grin, twisting around to mock glare at him, though he figures the smile does a great job in ruining the pretense. He’s never been a great actor.

“What are you doing?” Niall asks, now plopped on the end of his bed and toying with the zipper of his bag.

“Packing.”

“I realize, but why?” His friend tries again, eyeing him as he piles three shirts and the sneaky pair of jeans next to his bed.

“Mum wants me home for the weekend,” Harry explains as he puts the items into his bag. “Figured I’d be there by midday if I leave tomorrow morning and have Caroline pick me up before her morning run.” His smile is already gone.

“Wait, Caroline?” Niall says, tone far beyond surprised as he sits up, suddenly interested with the conversation. “She’s going, too? I thought you guys were done.”

“Uhm, no?” It’s his turn to be amused now, though really, it sounds as fake as it feels.

“Oh? I didn’t notice the love, I guess,” his roommate remarks, obviously sarcastic, and though Harry knows what he’s referring to, it still angers him that people think it’s okay to point it out, more so when he is already tired and longing for rest.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t notice,” Harry shoots back, regretting the harsh words instantly as he notices Niall’s expression. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Niall I didn’t mean that, I’m just tired, yeah?” Harry adds quickly, hoping his friend won’t hold it against him. He is too tired and done with the day to have another worry to add to his load. He will if he needs to, though.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Replies Niall, getting up from the bed and heading towards the door. “But, uhm.” He stops just before it, turning around and facing Harry again. “You know I love you no matter what, right? If something doesn’t make you happy, you can just say fuck it, I won’t mind.”

Harry can’t help but smile softly and nod, oddly comforted by the thought as his friend leaves. He finishes up packing after a few more minutes, before finally going to bed.

***

Harry can’t sleep.

He’s tossing and turning and it just won’t work. His bed is warm, but not comfortably. It seems to be almost repelling him, pushing the boy more and more into the swirls that are his thoughts and away from the forgiving laces of sleep. It must’ve been the short nap, and he silently curses his previous self, though he can’t blame it, the customary sleepiness still there, always there.

Mentally groaning, he opens his eyes and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. The room is quiet save for Niall’s soft breaths and it fills his head, more and more nothing filling his ears. He loves it.

The silence, the absolute lack of importance, is a rare occurrence, and it has become precious to him. It feels like everything’s stopped, all his lessons and relationships and ideas being replaced with absolutely nothing, with a void he has no need to fill. It’s peaceful and he takes it in, absorbs the immensity of it, and uses it to quiet his racing mind.

Harry feels like he should reflect, reach an impossible epiphany like they do in books or movies, but he is just content with lying there, calling for sleep with his constant blinks and sleepy mind. There is no sudden realization, no love confession to be done, just a mental ode to silence and a salute to peacefulness.

His heart beats once and then again, spaced out, lazy. The air stills, or maybe it was always like that, Harry doesn’t know, and it feels like a pause.

He breathes in, releases the air, and falls asleep.

***

The air hits Harry square on the face as Caroline steps on the gas pedal, car lurching forward forcefully and leaving the dorm’s parking space behind.

They’re riding in her car due to the sole reason that Harry doesn’t own one, and since it’s hers she’s driving, leaving Harry to lean on the door and worry only about how much of a mess his hair will be with all the wind the convertible is picking up on.

He can feel his eyelids going heavy and trying to convince his brain that now’s a good time to catch up on the missed sleep but some part of his brain warns him against the idea, probably fueled by the expectant silence that has settled in ever since he got in. Harry turns to look at Caroline, who smiles softly and turns on the radio, yet another device to mask the awkwardness- a feeling that he has become acquainted with lately.

The road will soon stretch before them, rural areas surrounding it and keeping their eyes from interesting views, so Harry figures he can get some sleep then. He coughs quietly and stares out the window, wondering if this is really better than sleeping since, after all, unmoved lips are as straight as sleepy ones.

He spares a glance at her again and notices how she seems focused on the road, eyes fixed on nothing but the asphalt in an almost obsessive way, but he can’t blame her. Harry prefers the road to his companion as well.

He wishes he had an interest in forming a conversation, words bubbling or lips twitching anxiously, but there’s none of that. Instead, he embraces the quietness that roars over the music, somehow louder than the words playing over the guitar.

The tires make a buzzing sound where they spin over the road, and it’s a gentle companion to Harry’s thoughts which flow slowly, like a syrup of words dribbling over the scene.

He must’ve fallen asleep, for when his consciousness is regained, they pass a sign that indicates Cheshire is not far away.

Harry’s muscles hold some memory of excitement, of jitters that begged to be released as jumping jacks and sprints on his backyard. His arms remember the urge to hug his mother, which is still there, just duller and subdued; covered by layers of things too dense to swim through.

The streets of his hometown are the same as always, worn and flanked by rows of shops owned by families that live not far away; families Harry probably knows by name from his snooping days when he had nothing else to do but pop randomly into stores and hang around, adults quickly gaining interest in the ten year old with a world of questions on his tongue.

He used to marvel at every answer, often repeating questions elsewhere to compare answers and choose one that would be his own. Harry’s mother had worried about such antics, but when she had gone with her son one day, she’d been surprised by the hoards of old ladies offering Harry pastries and endearments as the boy listened intently to each of their stories--the tales no one else seemed interested in.

Then he grew up and started writing them down, occasionally making a joint journal entry comparing two similar ones. Others had picked up on it as well, sometimes asking the boy about them and being rewarded by shy smiles or an embarrassed ‘nothing’.

Harry’s own mother had quickly caught on and bought him his very first Moleskin notebook, and from there he’d never stopped writing.

Somehow these things had almost exclusively been lyrics during his last five teenage years, but everyone ignored that fact, including him. He was to write stories, that’s what he did in his journal, and what he’ll do as an adult. It was set from the first day.

Harry is shaken from his thoughts as Caroline forcefully takes a corner, parking neatly in front of the third house down. It is fairly large and typical; the roof slightly sharper than he remembers and freshly painted red, but the same as he had left it nonetheless.

They get out of the car and Harry promptly grabs the bags, Caroline going off to the side and down the path without looking back. He follows, wondering why on earth she would bring so many things and sighs as he reaches the door, taking his place next to her.

It’s show time.

 

The door opens swiftly and his mother appears, a grin plastered on her face. Robin is not far behind, his large figure looming over the delicate one of Anne, and his face is expressionless as Caroline and Harry step inside, greetings brief due to the bitter cold seeping in.

“Oh Caroline you look so nice today!” Harry’s mother compliments as they walk into the kitchen, a small space that’s painted a warm yellow and is slightly cluttered with furniture. “Doesn’t she Harry?” Anne prompts and Harry nods, out of politeness mostly. He hadn’t even noticed the blue coat or heavy eyeliner, and as soon as he does, he forgets about it.

The girl laughs, a sound shrill and frivolous as it resonates in the rooms Harry used to spend so much time in. It’s alien to him, to the home feeling that this place barely holds, and it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine.

Over by the side, a chair is pushed up against the wall. Its back is scratched and Harry remembers how it got there, the panic as Dusty fell from his hand and the relief when he had landed safely on the floor, albeit at the cost of the pristine wood. To this day, he doesn’t remember his mother ever being as angry. But well, she doesn’t get angry in the same way now, so he really can’t compare.

Harry notices that Caroline and his mother have sat down, and he faintly hears the television babbling about in the next room, having been turned on by a probably lounging Robin. Deciding against the lesser of the two evils, he heads over to the contiguous room and plops down on the couch.

His back is against the plush back, and he spreads his lean legs out. He sinks further into the couch and shuts his eyes, accommodating his shoulders until he decides, with a contented sigh, that he’s perfectly comfortable.

Sleep decides that since Harry’s lying down, it’s a good time to attack him and claim the missing hours, but a throat clearing nearby makes his head snap back up from where it’d been lolling.

“So how have your classes been lately?” Robin asks, turning around slightly to face Harry.

“Good.” Replies the boy, not wanting to be drawn into conversation that is sure to play out against him.

Robin hums in response and focuses on the game, Harry mimicking him even though he cares not for the sport.

Cheers erupt from the screen and resonate in the evident silence of the room, the figures on the screen dancing around as Harry remains motionless. His eyes wander around the four walls, noting the scarcity of picture frames and how the mere ones that exist are displayed as prizes above the fireplace. A picture of Anne and Robin; a picture of all of them together, Caroline tucked at his side; a picture of Harry’s graduation. All of them are things to highlight, but none actually contain a real smile.

They’re eventually called to the table, and Harry is placed next to Caroline, her overwhelming perfume mingling with the appetizing smell of pasta. It makes his stomach churn.

The first few minutes go by as Anne relays the latest neighborhood news, things as simple and ordinary as a move or a recent breakup--tabloid material in the smallish town. Harry pretends to be interested as foreign names are mentioned.

Robin seems to get bored of it as well, and when there’s a pause he interrupts, and Harry is slightly glad yet nervous as to what the topic might shift into. Then, his stepfather’s eyes land on him and he slumps lightly. Not yet, please.

“I saw a notice on the university’s website that the newspaper was getting more attention from real publishers lately,” Robin comments, hands folding the napkin meticulously. “Have you written anything worthy of a front page yet?” He asks Harry, eyes set on the boy who forcefully chews the last of his meat, reaches for a glass of water painfully slow and downs half a glass. Then, he clears his throat, the silence a beat shy of tense.

“Not really,” Harry answers, gaze cast down over his empty plate. “I was given a column the other day, though,” he adds, hoping it will content Robin and not procure any more questions for him.

All Harry gets is pursed lips and a pressuring gaze on him from Robin, a small smile from his mother pale in comparison. Caroline makes no comment as they get up and clear the table for dessert.

Anne and her carry the conversation from then on, topics ranging from Harry as a baby--an overused one to make up for the lack of participants on the conversation--to the latest modifications to the building Caroline has her classes in.

They eat their strawberries in a masked hurry, all parties smiling as they bring their forks up faster in desperate attempts to escape the hostile table. Then they return to the couch again, but this time all four of them go.

Caroline sits next to him, leaning on Harry’s slightly toned side, but he doesn’t put an arm around her like he would’ve maybe ten months ago. He doesn’t feel the need or want to do that now.

His thoughts drift to the column he still has to write while the others chat idly; to the poem he feels he owes to the mystery boy.

Harry’s mind starts conjuring some thoughts, brain eliciting the memories of the emptily working barista, and some words pop up amongst the thoughtful swamp. Strings of words are barely being held together when he’s snapped out of it, Caroline’s loud laugh starling him.

Her mouth is very near his ear, and the sound cuts through his thoughts like a knife. It’s unwelcome and rude, but Harry can’t say so when the only reason he’s thinking so much in the first place is to escape doing just that--involving himself with the other three.

Involvement only gives space to words, and words from his family only bring him down. They already have tugged at his feet, the promise of more sinking fresh on his mind and in Robin’s look.

Harry accommodates himself, subtly putting some space between him and Caroline. She doesn’t seem to notice as she chats on, her laugh bursting out again, and Harry has to fight the urge to grimace at it.

He drifts off again, only this time, the words Niall had said bounce around his mind. He figures he could leave Caroline, could get away from the way her mere presence makes him slightly uncomfortable; but then again, if everything were so easy he’d have done that a long time ago.

She fits the scene so well; the spare child to fill Harry’s ghost of a spot. His mother looks happy, more than he has seen her be in a while, and Robin is not complaining for once, which is a change.

Actually, he is frowning, and as Harry notices him, his stepfather tilts his head in a motion that suggests he wants to talk in private. It sets his nerves on edge, but he slowly gets up, evades Caroline’s complains with a simple and regretful ‘I’ll be back’ and enters the kitchen.

“What was that?” Asks Robin as he passes through the door after Harry, leaning against it with his arms crossed defiantly.

Harry tilts his head and pretends to be confused, his attempt to avoid the topic rewarded with a deeper frown from Robin.

“With Caroline, Harry, don’t play stupid.” His stepfather says with a tone too serious for the matter at hand.

It makes it seem like it’s a priority, but maybe it is. The aspects of Harry’s life he can control always were, after all.

“Oh, it was nothing really,” Harry answers, trying his best to sound convincing because he honestly doesn’t need an interrogation on his status with her. It’s pending on far too thin of a thread to talk surely about it. “I’m just tired.”

Robin eyes him suspiciously and snorts somewhat softly, the sounds still loud enough to reach Harry and make him tense up.

“Good then.” Robin continues, walking over to the fridge and grabbing himself a beer, not caring to offer Harry one. He proceeds to lean again, but this time on the counter.

Not knowing what to do with himself, Harry follows, facing him as his lower back comes in contact with the cool marble. He has a perfect view of Robin from where he is, and his green eyes notice the way in which he sticks out for him immediately.

The thing is, Robin wasn’t there for the most of Harry’s life. He wasn’t present when Harry came home from school every day and dropped his backpack on the linoleum floor; or when Harry got the news about his grandmother passing away and broke down in tears; or when he kissed that girl from school right here in his small kitchen. He’s recent, a blur of change in his constructed life.

And yet, he isn’t, because he has carved himself such an exact spot that it seems like his presence can be felt anywhere. His books now litter the shelves, his drinks have replaced Harry’s juice boxes, and his shirts are now in the wash.

He’s everywhere Harry’s not.

Robin has made himself the man of the house and he controls Harry even though he shouldn’t, even though he has no right at all. He is the man of the house, and Harry is the intruder here, the odd piece whose place has been swapped for a much smaller hole he struggles to fill.

His demands are the ones heard, and seeing him so at ease at his house when Harry is not, makes the boy’s blood run a degree hotter.

Harry then voices the thought that has been bouncing around his head. “What if they weren’t?” he asks in allusion to things being okay with Caroline. His head is tinted with bitterness, and he feels like asking is okay, an inch more daring than what he’d go for usually, but still acceptable. And if it isn’t, then he doesn’t care that much. Sunday is only a night away anyways, and a slight spark is not unwelcome in the daft routinely day.

Robin looks at him sharply, his face giving away the worry on his mind. Harry wishes he worried about things that actually mattered like he worries about things that seem trivial, but apparently never are for some reason or other.

“It’d be a waste Harry, and you know that,” Robin says, crossing his arms again; something he tends to do when he talks about things that matter--well to him, anyways. “She’s a perfect lady, nice and proper, and it’s not like you have people knocking on your door, or at least people of her position. She could really take you up with her, and that is something you need, especially if you can’t even make a cover story.”

His words relay the message loud and clear, each sentence slashing at him. He’s not good enough in his eyes, and he knows this, ignores the fact day by day. And he wouldn’t care typically, knows that he’s okay and that his life is balanced and that he’s good, people tell him as much. But still, having his effort to comply and mold to their requirements thrown at his face is no pleasant feeling. It makes his blood boil further, and Harry clenches his hands into fists, the energy put into it accumulated over the years.

“Yeah, but I’m not happy with her,” escapes him and when he realizes what he has actually said, Harry gasps, eyes widening.

It’s the first time he’s acknowledged it out loud. He has thought about it before, but rapidly catalogued it as a rough time in their relationship. It has never been out in the open; that sad truth that he really doesn’t feel happy with her anymore, that they don’t work, probably never really did.

“Then learn to be,” Robin answers, the harshness in his voice matched by casualness, as if he is discussing a business transaction. Simple, cold, effective. “For your future.”

Harry can’t help but have his mouth drop open at that. It’s Robin blatantly telling him to suck it up and take it, for his ‘wellbeing’ and his future, one that Harry doesn’t plan him to be a part of.  He has known the man to say hard things, has learned to take them, but never so directly and never at such a bad time.

His stepfather remains as casual as ever, and Harry eyes him in disbelief as he turns around and walks out.

***

A whole playlist of songs later, Harry has come to three important conclusions, courtesy of a self-wide epiphany.

First, that he’s not fully happy, and that he hasn’t been in a while. He had suspected it, hints being the drag of his feet in the morning, the daftness of it all, but now he fully embraces it, knows deep in his bones that this is not what life is for.

Second, he doesn’t love Caroline, not one bit. This one’s easier; he has said it out loud already. And it’s not abrupt either; it has been a long time coming. He no longer holds anything but a mild friendship with her, and the lack of any significant contact for as long as he can picture should’ve clued him in earlier, probably. He figures that at least he knows it for sure now, and that must be good.

And third, that the blue eyed boy that goes by L, is probably the only thing he looks forward to. Sure he likes his friends and going out with them; likes immersing himself in poetry and writing about things and singing too. But expecting an answer has been the most thrilling thing of his past two weeks, and he knows that he should keep it up, feels like he has to.

When he finishes admitting this to himself, he falls back into his childhood bed, thankful that no one has come to disturb him while he holes up and thinks in his childhood bedroom. Sleep is quick to come.

 

When Harry comes to again, he finds himself sprawled out on the bed, sheets all rumpled around him. Groaning, he gets up and runs a hand through his hair.

He really doesn’t feel like going back down and facing life again; wishes to stay holed up on this bubble he’s created and never leave, never be asked for again. It would be a simple life, and as his eyes scan the walls of his room, he finds he has everything that’s ever made him happy.

Harry has his notebooks to write on, his computer to communicate with friends and the silence; the blissful absence of noise he feels he goes after every second of the day. He also has candy and- What’s that?

Murky green irises land on a corner of his room, where a guitar is propped against the corner. It’s his old instrument, and as Harry gets up, he notices all the small indents he’s left on it in times that seem an eternity ago.

There it is, the small chip it got when Harry had inadvertently slammed it against a wall; the sticker that, oh god, reads ‘I love N’Sync’ and the pink splotch that was made by the icing of a cupcake that was determined to leave something for Harry to remember its sweetness by.

It’s his teen years, splattered across the worn wood, and as Harry places it on his lap, his mind brings up a forgotten fact, making him scramble up and dig through his bedside drawer.

There lies his black moleskin notebook, cover worn and shoved in the deep end of his bedside table. Harry had put it there, angered, the night before he left for university.

It has remained untouched, and as he picks it up and flips the pages, memories of sitting down in this very room and filling it with words rush to his mind. Harry sits down on the bed and flips to a page he well remembers, the ink on it smudged and spots crinkled with dried tears.

He grabs the guitar and breathes out, for it feels more like coming home than stepping inside the house did. Harry’s fingers are quick to accommodate on the instrument, and he strums the guitar once, doubtful.

He reads over the words on the paper once, testing them out on his mind and then hesitantly, he utters the first line, then the second. His voice becomes stronger, surer as he remembers why he ever wrote them down, why he felt the need to silently scream out.

Harry’s fingers join in, and he’s singing with all he has. With all the pity and the sorrow. With the strength it takes to hold it all in day by day, with the longing for resolution.

He sings for the sixteen year old who made up the song, for his dreams and hopes. He sings because they’re still there, beating in tune.

He sings it for himself, as the old kid in him tears down the walls, to relieve the pain that isn’t even there. It may be a welcome to the parts he left behind, the ones that are coming back as if he never bid them goodbye.

***

 

Silence is good

Silence is calm.

And yet, you chase the storm

Always behind.

Your wings barely torn

Free spirit, L

That you seem

And yet you trap yourself

In ideals made of steel.

Laughter is no key in happiness

It is no degree in fun.

It can be fake

Easily overdone

But knowing yourself,

That’s the best thing to date

~C

***

Tuesday 2nd

Louis finishes reading the last page of the paper as someone walks up to the counter. He lifts his eyes up and notices with a frown that it’s a couple that seems more involved in their play fighting than ordering.

He waves his arms around, trying to get their attention, but he isn’t successful. There is no one else queuing up to order, though, so Louis leans on the counter, waiting for the boy to stop tugging at the girl’s hair and for her to stop giggling.

His face doesn’t let up from the scrunched up expression, and as both of the customers laugh, it sets in deeper.

The truth is that Louis misses that; the gleam he can spot in her eye, the way his hands tighten around her waist. They’re completely lost on the other, and it’s been so long since Louis has had that, that his heart tugs painfully while he observes it.

He wishes he had someone to wake with sleepy kisses in the morning, to kiss endlessly at the park with people walking by, to submerge himself in him and forget that living is a thing until hours later. Louis longs for late night movie marathons, and inside jokes and cuddles. Emotional support, a partner to go through, a boyfriend. He wants that, dreams of things he could do if he had one.

And it’s not like he never had that, like he’s been single his whole life. No, no, that would be a blatant lie for he has dated several guys. Two long relationships and several short flings, but that makes it worse somehow; the knowledge of just how good it is, how his heart seemed ten times bigger when he wrapped his arms around the object of his affection, now that he can’t have it.

They’re painful memories since they highlight the current lack, and he ignores how tough the ending was in favour of spurting up the goodness in his mind. It’s the only thing that keeps him up, the hope that he’ll relive that.

Louis has no one in particular now, and as he glances to the newspaper his heart sinks an inch more. Well there is something; someone that knows how lonely he is, someone who seems to be interested in knowing just how much, but he-if it even is a he- is mere printed lines on a paper. A faraway reality his fingers cannot grasp on to.

Inside his chest, sadness blooms, released by the display but ever-present inside Louis’ soul. It spreads through him, and his eyes dim slightly, shoulders sagging with acknowledgement of the feeling he’s been ignoring fervently lately.

A loud tap makes his eyes snap back up, and it seems like the couple has finally detached for long enough to order. Louis takes the requests and money, makes the beverages and sees them off, the tug in his heart painful as the girl slinks her free arm through her other half’s.

Shaking his head, Louis looks around quickly before taking out his phone and dialing the familiar number.

“Hey Lou, what’s up?” Rings through the speaker as Zayn picks up, the bustle of people a background noise contrasting with his rich, accented voice.

“Not much, but listen what do you say we go out tonight, Liam, you, and me to that new place ‘Dream’ or whatever it’s called,” Louis says, a hopeful tilt to his voice.

There is a silent pause. “It’s Tuesday,” Zayn deadpans a beat later.

“I know,” Louis affirms, knowing that his friend will read the need in his words.

Sure, Louis is always up for a night of fun, but he also knows when to put limits and yeah, Tuesday is too early in the week to get smashed. He knows this, but he also remembers how the only cure for the blue that now runs freely through his veins is alcohol, sweaty bodies and the knowledge that he still has it in him, that ability to pull someone in even if it is for just a night.

“I’ll text Liam,” is all Zayn says before he hangs up, and Louis sighs in relief, thankful for the boys that make his life easier with their understanding of his weird ways.

Louis pockets his phone and grabs a cloth to start cleaning the counter, mind already lost in countless parallel universes where he’s not alone.

***

The booming music can be heard from outside the club, the line of people tapping their feet to the rhythm as they wait for their golden chance to get in.

Louis, Liam and Zayn halt their step right by the entrance, and Liam nods before he taps on the bouncer’s shoulder.

“Andy!” He exclaims, and when the guy’s eyes light up Louis grins. Easy peasy.

Seconds, and an overall booing by the queuing people, later, they’re inside the club, which is packed with moving bodies.

Over by a side, Louis spots the bar and tugs Zayn’s sleeve to get them walking towards it, knowing that Liam will trail along. There is a small crowd around it, but they manage to push their way through it until they’re at the front, a grinning barman promptly waiting for their order.

“Three tequila shots, please,” he manages to scream over the music, digging into his pocket for money.

The bartender nods and pulls out three glasses, filling them to the brim and pushing them towards Louis, who pays and drowns his without a second thought. It burns as it goes down, but that itself reminds Louis of why he’s even here in the first place, to get rid of an ache that is much more permanent than the one in his throat.

Zayn and Liam mimic him but with slightly less enthusiasm, their gazes set on each other and Louis hates this, how he’s feeling like the outsider again, so soon as well. He calls for another shot and drowns that immediately as well.

They turn at that, worried looks searching Louis’s face but he shrugs them off, eying the dance floor.

It is an overall dark mass, the individual pieces melting into the pulsating being that calls for Louis. He can barely see the people on the edges, but many more are swallowed in the mess of bodies, alcohol, sweat and want. The darkness inside is inviting, a place he can go into and become no one but a mere part more, one that dances as if it has nothing to lose; because inside that organism that feeds on regret and unwanted memories, he is no one.

He won’t be lonely, not when he’s around that many people; won’t feel the chill on his bones when he’s flanked by heat; won’t be set apart by the lack of someone. The ever present loneliness drives him forward into the flickering lights and hectic moves.

As he makes his way in, Louis thinks he sees Zayn shake his head, but he can’t be sure.

Inside, Louis feels his heart halt for a second, absorb the feeling of floating, of drifting without a sense with this group of strangers that’s looking to get lost and be found at the same time. They all wish to lose their aches, wish to gain someone that takes it from them.

Louis starts paying attention to the song and smiles when he recognizes the catchy, pop tune. His hips start moving swiftly, and the chorus is building up, the energy around him increasing. Just before it breaks, he lifts his arms up, letting go of all cares as the crowd turns into a semi mosh pit, bodies flying everywhere, carrying his with them.

The beat dies down and gives way to another, but it all melts together into an incessant thumping that resonates even inside Louis.

Then, two foreign hands find their way to his hips, bringing them close to another set that’s matching his dance moves. Louis smiles coyly at no one but himself and turns around his head to survey his catch with interested eyes.

It’s some blonde boy with a messy quiff and dark eyes, fairly pretty, so Louis hums in approval and moves his hips perceptibly slower, his hands going up, back and around the stranger’s neck, pulling in him in slightly.

The two part system moves to the rhythm, their dance getting filthier and filthier until Louis’ partner just places his lips on his ear and whispers dirty promises about bathroom stalls and moans; they become a reality minutes later, after wet lips find their way to Louis’s member and he comes with a hollow shout. He bids the one responsible goodbye while the buzz of his orgasm still thrums in his veins.

The dance floor welcomes him with ease, his body sinking effortlessly into the known darkness once again. People envelop him at all sides as if he was never gone, snatched away and back but with his moves lighter. Some carry glasses, and he briefly heads over to the bar and gets his own; half the liquid burning down his throat and half spilled on the bodies around him.

Sweat pools in his back, but it does nothing to warm the chill he fills inside, one that is only dimming with each drink he takes. The air gets hotter and hotter by the dance floor, but he refuses to leave. Can’t really, because there is a string of bodies- people with the same careless need as him- plastered to his back.

Some express their ideas of own apartments and slow fucks, others rushed risqué motions in the bathroom, but none entertains him long enough to actually consider it. Louis is not warm enough yet, his head still thinking unwanted thoughts, vision too sharp to lose sight of what he’s really pursuing, so he pushes them off and waits for them to be replaced with another faceless stranger.

Eventually, the music gets heavier, his heart slows down and Louis is floating in a world of blurry people, laughs, music and fit guys. He finally feels like he can smile a little easier, can let go completely.

***

The first thing that Louis feels when he wakes up is the pounding in his head, the incessant beating that won’t relent. He groans and shuts his eyes with more force than necessary, trying to block the sunlight that is sure to only worsen his state.

Then, he notices the nausea threatening to spill his stomach’s contents, which feel heavy on his gut as he rolls over. He reaches out for his bedside table and feels around it, brow furrowing when he doesn’t find his glasses there.

Confused, he opens up his eyes slowly and gasps.

It is neither his bed nor his bedside table what he’s looking at. And he should’ve expected it really, but his startled self struggles to summon memories of the night before, only succeeding in picturing a dark haired boy and kisses and a messy scene he figures was sex due to the soreness down below.

Louis comes to a realization and turns around, breathing out in relief when the other side of the bed is empty, not wishing for awkward morning encounters.

On the bedside table there is a sticky note that reads ‘off to work, door locks automatically’.

He is grateful for the instructions, an excuse for a quick getaway but at the same time, when his leg finds the vast expanse of icy sheets; his heart crumbles the smallest of bits without his permission.

It’s just that the blatant coldness matches the one he has deep inside, one he had managed to chuck away last night, but one that has returned, as it always does. It’s there in the sheets, in the vast nothing that surrounds him and in the way that whatever way he looks, he won’t find a single known thing to comfort him.

Maybe it’s an obscure metaphor of his life, how no matter how much he reaches out he won’t find a thing, or maybe he’s overanalyzing , reading into inanimate objects to distract his mind to the blatant fact that he was left behind in this empty flat per a protocol he doesn’t want to follow.

Louis is a stranger in this environment, which has turned cold with rejection--of a morning together, of a chance to make it more--but it really is expected. Louis is just not made for this right at his core, ignore it as he does. He’s made for warm mornings and rosy cheeks and sleepy goodbyes. Made for the soft splatter of rain on lazy, cuddly Sundays, but no one’s willing to have that with him, or so it seems.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.” He tells himself with a shaky voice when he senses his stomach hollowing, insides protest on the onslaught of emotions.

But he’s not, not really, and when he sits up and catches the sight of his bruise littered chest, it breaks him.

He’s good enough to mark, claim and possess but a cup of coffee is out of the question. His heart beats a beat more and then sinks, taking with it all composure Louis was trying to keep and a single tear rolls down his cheek.

Louis has promised himself he won’t cry, not about this, not anymore. He hastily wipes the heavy tear that follows the second and breathes out shakily. No, he won’t do this, he isn’t that pathetic.

Or maybe he is, why not? He’s lonely and it’s cold and fuck he doesn’t want to feel the missing part anymore.

Mindlessly, he leans over the side and takes his phone out of his thankfully nearby jeans, rapidly reaching for the desired contact. Marcus.

The black letters stand out harshly, and he glares at them through blurred eyes, feels his chest swell up slightly at the idea of seeing his ex. There is only one possible outcome, and it does always leave him in a much bigger mess than previous, but Louis really wants to press down and call him.

He shouldn’t. He can. He really shouldn’t. He does.

The line beeps one time and Louis’ breath catches. It beeps a second time and his heart stutters. It beats a third time and his stomach twists.

It goes into voicemail.

A sob escapes him.

***

I know my inner struggles

I know my heart’s desire

I just don’t get to feel it

Or something or other

You can’t have it all

They say

But what they leave aside

Is how it’s a matter of what you get

Not of how much.

Because I can count the breathless screams

I can picture the ecstatic parties

But I can’t remember the last time

I got a cuddle

Can you?

~L

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My fave poems are coming up in this next few chapters, and i'm sorry i update so little now; school is just impossible atm. I swear that when it's done i'll update a lot, i really adore writing this :) (Thanks to my lovely betas as always!)

Sunday 7th

A single bird chirps loud and clear, the notes of its song ringing through the park where students lounge about, with their studies ignored and coats piled on thickly.

Harry looks up to it, snapped out of his thoughts by the tune.

His books lie scattered about him, as he dropped the idea of studying outside as soon as the cold turned his nose pink. It remains that faint colour, but the feeling has disinterested Harry, whose mind claims his attention for the tenth time today, keeping him just as far from the books as from the column he’s supposed to write.

Harry knows there is one thing on his mind that he needs to go over, to analyse and let go of, and as he breathes in the crisp air, the random pages fluttering around him, he sighs and lets the memories flood him.

*** A week prior***

The Cheshire centre has remained untouched.

The quaint shops are still there, barely waking up at the request of their sleepy employees. The street is bare and cracked in all the right places, the sidewalk awaiting the steady flow of traffic that is sure to come in an hour.

Benches, trees and wildlife still surround Harry as he turns and enters the park where he got his first kiss, a memory that pales in comparison with all the experiences he has collected since then. It involves a fat-cheeked Harry and a silly girl and a lot of awkwardness, and as he walks over the spot and slumps down onto the bench, he chuckles.

Leaning back against the wood, he closes his eyes and simply lies there for a second, sorting the thoughts in his head. The cool air hits him relentlessly, nature’s alarm waking him from the tornado of emotions bustling through his neurons. They’ve already had the entire night to sort themselves, and they haven’t settled down one bit. Instead, they boom louder and louder in Harry’s mind, begging for a resolution he cannot give.

The wind picks up around him, and Harry shivers softly; feels the wind dance with his hair, pulling him here and there, like everything else in life. One gust pushes it far, far back and away from its designated place, and he softly hates it for it. Another pushes it back down and he smiles, for that one is himself, or at least the version of himself he wants to be. Many more mix in with those two, and Harry forgets all about analogies and metaphors to instead simply lie there. It’s what he wants to do for the rest of his life, be oblivious to everything and nothing around him; to float through the years without acknowledging any of the silent revolt going on inside him.

It wouldn’t be a very entertaining life, but it’d be simple and right now, it’s all he craves.

An hour passes by, or maybe just minutes in which Harry feels himself drifting off occasionally, something he hadn’t managed to do back at his house. Maybe it was due to the oppressive walls. Maybe not. Maybe it’s the people, or just maybe, he could never really relax there.

People start to drift by, first trickling in like stray drops and then as a full on shower in what Harry guesses is the time everyone goes to work or gets their caffeine. He never quite got that, the need to be awake at all times, a foreign substance telling your own body that it’s not okay to sleep, not acceptable to drift into what is the simplest of states. It seems impure in some sorts, unwanted in all.

Harry’s own stomach growls and he reluctantly stands up, shaking out the limbs that were lucky enough to go to sleep. Pins and needles fall down his legs, and he revels in the sensation that is, for once, different from cold or tiredness. Those are all he seems to know these days.

The bakery he walks into is quiet, and it welcomes him as if he never left, as if he never traded filling out orders of coffee for mindless typing. In the corner, the chair he used to call his own is thankfully free, and he immediately claims it, dropping his bag at the small, magazine-littered table next to it.

Tugging on the zipper, he attempts to get his notebook out, but while he does so he notices something on the wood.

Carved in sloppy handwriting and tucked into a corner below what advertises a ‘fat-free tummy in seven days!’ is a small heart, the letters H+I inside.

He can see now, chuckling softly, how much of a cliché it was when after his first kiss, he ran here and felt the need to record it. Wood had been his ally then, and the proof still remains.

A soft smile crawls onto Harry’s face.

As he’s getting comfortable in the chair with his notebook finally open, a plump figure approaches his corner.

“Harry, dear, is that you?”

He looks up and there she is, Barbara, the owner of the bakery.

She hasn’t even changed, hair still striped with white and a lovely smile pasted on her face. It makes his own lips twitch into one as he gets up and hugs her. Harry’s head goes well above hers, and she smells like old lady and flour. It’s wonderfully homey.

“You’ve grown so much, oh my!” She exclaims as she holds him at an arm’s length, inspecting his body up and down, making him blush.  “And it’s been so long! Come on, sit down and tell me all about this glamorous life of yours at uni,” she gushes, making a motion for Harry to sit down.

Harry speeds over to a neighbouring table and borrows a chair, watching Barbara settle into it seconds later. He sits down on the well-known cushions he’s been occupying up to now.

And he talks, little and spaced as his words trickle out of him, a faint stream of syllables portraying his life in a light that isn’t objective. Barbara interrupts sometimes, to add her detail or two of town happenings, but it’s mostly Harry’s words lazily rolling off his tongue.

“Seems lovely, dear,” she comments when Harry talks about Niall with much more energy than about any of the other topics, including the brief sentence on his girlfriend. “But what about your lovely singing? You know, the fan club here hasn’t dissolved.” She adds with a small giggle.

Harry looks down to his lap then, clearing his throat and lowering the sound of his voice minimally.

“I don’t really do that anymore.” He states. A smile is no longer invading his lips.

“Why not? You loved it,” Barbara exclaims, surprise tainting her words. Harry thinks he may hear sadness there, though why, he doesn’t understand.

“Other things were more important,” Harry justifies; rehearsed, cold and untrue. It’s what he’s supposed to say, he knows that much. (Also knows it sounds exactly like Robin in his mind).

“Oh dear, nothing is ever as important as your passion,” she says, nodding softly as if deciding something. There is a small, silent pause. “You know, my parents didn’t want me to set up a bakery.”

Barbara laughs softly, recalling some fight, probably. “Oh no, they wanted me to study something at a fancy university, be a professional and all that,” she adds, tone and posture gossipy.

Looking up at him, she smiles, searching for understanding in Harry’s green eyes.

“But I always knew that baking was my passion you know? I never doubted it, no,” Barbara continues, and Harry finds that he has a question bubbling in his mind. Her kind eyes seem open, so he forgoes hesitation.

“How did you know though?”

Barbara’s smile widens and her eyes get a glassy look over them as she nods and speaks with a sort of reverence floating off her words. “Well, it was the only thing I could do forever, could really get lost in. The kitchen was my sanctuary, and up to now not a single other place has made me feel that way,” she answers.

Harry’s heart aches with a well-known ferocity, the words hitting too close to home. He knows that feeling well. It invades his mind whenever he lets his vocal chords loose, picks up a guitar and releases the pent up need. It’s the one he dreams of feeling more often, probably forever.

“I confirmed it when a friend described how she felt for her boyfriend. Love, she said, was wanting to hold on and never let go, never get tired. I felt that way about baking, and you could say it was my first love,” Barbara adds, meeting Harry’s eyes again. A pause hangs in the air.

“That why you shouldn’t, Harry,” She states with conviction, voice stronger than the heartfelt whisper that she used seconds ago.

“Shouldn’t what?” He asks, confused.

Barbara chuckles, looking up as if thinking this boy before answering. “Shouldn’t let others tear you away from it, dear, you’ll regret it sooner or later.”

Harry nods and notices his cup is empty while the clock indicates it’s almost lunchtime. Barbara seems to notice it too, gesturing to his bag with an understanding smile. The notebook is still bare, but Harry’s heart no longer is.

He gets up and she does too, coming closer for one last hug.

“Though sometimes ‘later’ means things have passed you by, Harry, so don’t limit yourself for much longer,” Barbara says as she hugs him, squeezing him softly as the last word gets out. Then, she’s gone, turned around and dashing back to the ovens, leaving a dazed Harry behind.

 

The walk back home is not reluctant.

Harry’s mind is whizzing and turning excitedly, ideas shooting out and taking up space that is not available. Try as he might he cannot settle the buzz that has been sparked in him--perhaps unfairly, but decidedly not unwelcome as new possibilities and futures stretch in the open path that is his creativity.

And yet, amidst the whirlwind of things, in between the mental screaming and muddled ideas, he knows, recognizes the iron statement that has finished materializing inside of him.

It has been building, turning from liquid ideas to hard metal with each comment, each faked kiss, and each boring class. Barbara just blew off the last of the steam and now, he has the hard lump that is the truth, but it isn’t cold as it should be. It is pleasantly warm and filling Harry with such a satisfaction, an inner peace he’d be craving for years. It’s hard to keep the smile down.

As Harry turns into his street, the world seems brighter, or maybe the blurry film before his eyes has finally dissolved. He walks by a tree and a squirrel looks up, seemingly untroubled. Harry thinks it nods, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

Climbing the last of the steps towards the door, Harry breathes in, takes the key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, slipping in seamlessly. He hears some rustling coming from the kitchen, so he sets off towards it.

Robin is there, arranging bacon and eggs on a plate. He turns around as Harry walks in, giving a small nod before he pours some orange juice into a glass. Harry sits down at the table, noticing how there’s no empty plate in sight, and Robin seats himself at the chair next to him.

Harry gulps audibly as the silence permeates the room.

Robin’s chewing sets a slow pace, and Harry’s heart beats faster, pumping more intensely as he works on gathering courage. He has it in him, knows he does, but it takes some time and encouraging thoughts until he has enough strength to even form the sentence in his head.

It’s the wave he’s been riding since the start, on the top and scared to look below him. It’ll crash down, and he knows the foam will come in arguments, but he hopes it won’t be salty on his wounds.

He breathes in deeply once more, feels the words rush out as the water crashes down.

“I am going to take up singing again.”

Robin looks up, his look less surprised than Harry expected. It’s colder, though.

“Why?” His stepfather asks, letting his fork down and propping both elbows on the table, business-like.

Harry isn’t ashamed of what he wants to do, he really isn’t, but the way Robin is staring at him, eyes cold and mocking as if he were looking down on a spoiled child, makes his head bow.

“It’s my dream,” he mumbles, eyes trained on the table, voice a whisper in the stillness of the kitchen.

Robin leans closer. “What was that?”

“It’s my dream; it’s all I wish for,” Harry repeats, harsher this time and with annoyance buzzing through his veins.

He is not to be treated as some foolish kid. He won’t stand for that. Robin has no right over him, and since Harry is being civilized, it’s only reasonable that the respect be mutual.

However, his stepfather doesn’t seem to have received the memo.

Robin chuckles, a gesture Harry often uses, but it’s darker, obscured with a malice Harry doesn’t have in him. His stepfather leans back on his chair but his gaze still cuts through green.

“Well, haven’t we proved already that that wish can’t come true?” Robin asks, sarcastic wonder stabbing Harry fiercely.

He tenses up, and Robin must notice, as his lips quirk up in a light devilish grin.

“Be reasonable, Harry, come on,” he continues, leaning back and picking up his fork, as if he has decided the discussion is over. Harry no longer presents a risk to him.

“I want another chance,” Harry says, proud at the fact that his voice doesn’t waver as much as his resolution does.

After swallowing and noticing Harry has finished, Robin goes on but his voice has somehow gotten harder.

“We let you have your chance, don’t you remember? You don’t have the talent for it, and we’re not gonna let you mooch off of us as you continue this childlike fantasy, Harry, we won’t,” Robin insists just as Anne walks into the kitchen.

Her face gives away her discomfort, and though Harry isn’t even close to surrendering--hasn’t waited this long to do this just to have Robin put him back down with some words that, admittedly, do hurt like hell--some support would be nice ,even just a smile. Words are just that, words, and they hold no power over his intentions, but his mother is still dear to him, and the return of some long-lost approval would be wonderful.

Nevertheless, she remains quiet, laying down a plate and helping herself to some food while steadfastly ignoring them both. Her cold shoulder hurts more than Harry is willing to admit, and it makes his decision for him.

There is nothing left to say here. He needs the financial support, is not dumb enough to leave university without a steady job, and neither Robin nor Anne is willing to help him out in any way that they don’t also deem beneficial to themselves. It is clear, and it cuts deeper than Harry can take without tears.

He is alone now. Still has to conform but is  free to mould the rest around what he wants until he finds a job to set him free. There is no reason to remain here, with an angry Robin and a mother who stands behind him, showing her loyalty to anyone but her son, her own blood.

“Fine.” Harry sentences, getting up from the chair and sparing one last glance as he exits and trots up the stairs in a sudden rush to leave.

He mentally thanks the heavens for the fact that Caroline left yesterday, a sudden appointment “accidentally” interrupting her weekend. He won’t have to deal with her as he enters his room, gets his bag and gathers the things that are missing.

When he’s done, Harry goes down the stairs and finds Robin waiting at the foot.

They’re both silent as Harry goes to the door and opens it, but before he gets a chance to slip out, Robin calls his name.

Harry cranes his neck and finds his mother behind her husband, her head bowed down in clear submission.

Robin speaks.

“If you drop out, don’t even bother coming back.”

Harry looks at his mother and meets her eyes, void of reaction.

The door slams behind Harry, shutting out her blank look.

****Present***

His mother’s expression clouds his mind, and he closes his eyes as the memory fades away into the inside of a cab.

Beside him, people go on with their animated chatter, someone texts and the birds keep on chirping. Nothing has changed, but Harry feels a need settle in his muscles, a buzz charge in his brain.

He rapidly finds his notebook, and the words burst out of him, feelings bubbling up from the place he’d stored them a week ago. They’ll be shared to someone who understands, to a boy that he hasn’t yet reached out for--can’t until his issues are settled--but who still knows parts of him that he dares not expose to the rest of the world.

It’s calming, comforting in ways that his life in general is not, and that makes it his favourite thing in the world.

***

 

 

I grew up in a yellow house

Red bricks

Full time job,

Where I never got time

To fully spread out.

I tried that now

Letting go,

Being one,

And discovered

That if you don’t like what’s inside

You should’ve left it uncovered

~C

***

Wednesday 10th

Louis is sitting down on his bed, pieces of balled up paper surrounding him. The Tuesday paper lies next to an impressively big pile, the last page facing up and threatening him.

On his lap is an open notebook with several lines crossed out, the black overpowering the white. And it reflects his mind, really, with the dark inability to write overpowering his willingness to do so. The few ideas that have made it onto the paper are barely visible now under the thick lines of rejection he has layered over them.

It makes him somewhat happy, the fact that he cannot see the imperfect words that simply do not convey what he means, that their oddness doesn’t attack him as he goes over the one line he has so far.

It’s not even good. It’s a desperate attempt, and as he reluctantly crosses it out so it can join the black valley of inky death with the others, he breathes out in frustration.

Louis then drops the pen and lets his body slump back into the bed, hands going to his eyes so he can rub the tiredness there.

The day has been long, and all he’d wanted to do upon arrival to his sweet home was answer the melancholic poem he caught yesterday in the paper, but his stupid mind won’t let him do that, won’t welcome any sort of inspiration into its dark lair. It makes him want to tear his hair out and scream, just a little (or a lot), because why did no one tell him poems would escape the grabby hands of his brain upon search?

The thing is, he doesn’t know why he is actually doing the whole poem thing.

Sure, he likes the companionship, the anonymous backup he feels he has nowadays. And it may be slightly risqué oh him, but the fact that he doesn’t know who it is, that he has someone noticing him secretly, sends a rush of excitement through his body each time he sees a poem directed at him.

Yet, it is still not enough to get the words flowing. It doesn’t give him the extra push to pour himself over the pages, and that may just be the catastrophe of the century; a sensible boy with curly hair disappointed by the lack of a response from the mysterious L (Louis admits the thought sounds slightly egotistical but he’s in despair, he has a license for it or something.)

The boy rolls over to his side, relishing on the crunching sound of squashed ideas. His head is now in direct line with the barely open door, and as the light flickers with a body passing by, he groans.

Louis should get up, freshen up his mind, because this is going nowhere and a drink doesn’t sound like a bad idea at the moment.

Pulling on some slacks and tossing his pen and paper aside, he wanders out of the room and into the annoyingly bright land beyond it, his eyes set on the lit kitchen.

He finds Liam leaning on the counter when he walks in, and the surprise his heart stutters momentarily before it resumes its monotonous task of giving him life. Louis spares a thought for it, the incessant routine must get boring after a while and that’s really no way of living, but it’s a heart and god, poetry has really messed with his brain.

“Hey Lou,” Liam greets him, lifting a glass of water and swallowing most of it down as Louis pours some into his own.

He smiles in acknowledgement as he walks over and hops onto the counter opposite Liam, happily quenching his thirst.

“We thought you were sleeping,” Liam comments, and Louis lifts a brow in response, gaining a crackle from the boy. “Not in that way, you pervert.”

Louis shrugs and covers his grin with the edge of his glass as he takes another sip.  “No, I was just writing a bit, thought I should probably drink something.”  He sets the now empty glass into the sink.

“What are you working on?” Liam asks, his head tilted with interest.

Louis feels his nerves threaten to spike. “Nothing, really,” he tries, aiming for nonchalance but failing as his eyes fail to meet Liam’s. He can still feel his questioning gaze though, and he knows a pout is bound to be there, so he  mumbles, “Just a poem, nothing big.”

“Oh,” Liam breathes out, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Is it for the paper?” He questions, and Louis feels a knot form in his throat, so he simply nods, doesn’t feel like oversharing a part of him that’s oddly private despite the public nature. Like exhibitionist sex, supplies his ever useful hurried mind.

Liam seems to think the confirmation over.

“Just be careful, yeah?” He sets on, and Louis can feel the way Liam wishes for him not to fuck up whatever he has, not to ruin something that is actually positive for once. The worry caged up in his friend’s mind is palpable and deep, so he nods.

Liam appears to be satisfied, for he sets down his own glass and hugs Louis shortly before disappearing down the hall.

Louis follows soon after, slipping into the soft world of paper and words and people who only exist in print. He picks up his notebook and pen, setting his mind to write something, but this time he doesn’t focus on his day or his issues. He ignores the whiny voice that begs for release, cages the beast that is his pent-up fury, and focuses solely on Curly and the things he wishes to say to him: the way his poems are different from Louis’, that he recalls them vividly, as well as every line he has muttered under his breath as his eyes feasted on words meant exclusively for him. Those are the things that spur on ideas, and his mind relishes bringing each item up to produce more and more connected letters.

Soon, the paper is filled with nothing but lines that remain neatly present on the white pages; lines that flow out of him and write their own symphony on the pages, dance around ideas he has kept to himself.

When he finally sets it down and reads over it, a smile takes over his lips and refuses to let go even as he pushes everything aside and goes to sleep.

***

 

You call me sad

And yet I do not know if I’m the lucky lad

In this pair

Which in unevenness I misjudged

Or if I’m the lost soul

Whose infortune is so large

He has forgotten the sheer immensity of it.

So I can say you sound blue

Or that your tone bleeds true

But I cannot say that I pity you

Or that I wish I was you.

Because you’re a stranger in black ink

Whose words crumble my heart.

And I’m on the other side

Sharing pities you answer to,

Growing in a despair that lives in you as well.

So I offer a metaphoric pat

A gentle I’m here and just that

Because I don’t wanna be wrong

Or paint words that ring true

So let us stay univalent

Equal in a way the universe knows we’re not

And share thoughts.

Pretty ones and some that are not.

~L

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be better than a larry sex tape! (okay no but i'd be super appreciated!)  
> (You can leave it in [ tumblr](http://latitta.tumblr.com/) too!)


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